An Ill-Fated Sky

by Darrell Drake

  That suited Tirdad. He needed time to simmer. Relating meant remembering, and that meant reliving the experience in all its horrific detail. The reins creaked in his white-knuckled grasp. Would that the star-reckoner were still alive just so he could run it through a second time.

  “So,” Chobin began after a nightjar had darted by, ending their well-kept silence with its telltale trill. “How do you plan to achieve this ‘planet-reckoner for good’ angle?”

  Tirdad shrugged. “To be honest, I don’t know. I’d like to continue to root out divs for the good of the nation. Ashtadukht meant well in that, and Truth be revered I enjoyed it.”

  “You mean to travel as she did?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And how the fuck do you mean to convince the star-reckoners, or the King of Kings for that matter?”

  A sly smile of his own accompanied Tirdad’s answer. “I don’t.”

  “Hah!” Chobin punctuated the shout by slapping his thigh. “You fucker. Where has this Tirdad been all these years? I fucking love him!”

  “I’ve been here by your side all along.” The planet-reckoner gazed wistfully into the night. “But you had eyes for another.”

  The marzban burst out laughing. One gloved hand gave his thigh a series of emphatic slaps while the other offered the wine. “Take it,” he insisted, giving the wineskin a shake as if it’d have the same allure as a topless dancer. “I want to hear more.”

  Tirdad needed no encouragement. He accepted, raising it in salute to his friend, and drank with gusto. Moderation, he decided, had gotten him nowhere enviable. It’d gotten him here.

  • • • • •

  With only a short rest before dawn, the pair reached the estate as the sun reached its zenith.

  “Glad you cleaned the place up a bit,” Chobin said as they traversed the forecourt, flanked by gardens in bloom, busy with bees and birdsong. He took a whiff and grunted his approval. “Almost drowns out the fucking stench of saltwater.”

  “I enjoy the smell,” Tirdad evenly replied.

  The marzban leaned over the head of his mount to inspect the path they followed. “Weeds could use some tending to. You sure you pulled them up before you left?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Something bother—oh, hah! What are you now, fifty? Hangover must be brutal.”

  “Forty-five,” said Tirdad. He dismounted, then went through the motions of tending to his horse and gathering his gear. When that was taken care of, he lumbered into the vestibule with the timeworn ram mural. “I’m going to sleep,” he called over his shoulder, planting his hand on the plaster painting for support. Tirdad paused to consider it. His heart drummed painfully behind his eyes, but he wanted to take a moment to appreciate the image of the ram. Such a noble creature. And like the family it represented, it was fading from existence. He gave it a pat and moved on. “I’ll see about getting you restored. You shouldn’t suffer for our mistakes.”

  Merry with amusement, Chobin sounded off from the forecourt. “Drink some water!”

  “I know,” Tirdad grumbled, grimacing at the nausea that washed over him.

  “Off to fetch something fresh!” Chobin cried.

  Tirdad just groaned. Had the man never been hungover before? Why in the seven climes was he yelling? He passed into the courtyard with its modest three-sided dome and headed over to the bubbling fountain housed within. Tirdad splashed his face and drank generously—it was crisp and invigorating, and now justified his decision to unclog it during his mourning period. There was a long list of repairs that needed taking care of, but he figured his ancestors’ ingenious method of tunnelling into the mountain aquifer for irrigation should be given due regard.

  With a newfound appreciation for his handiwork, he made for the living quarters. One of the first things he’d done after the estate had been cleansed was to clear out the carpet of eggshells, so he was in the middle of slipping off his boots when he stepped through the door.

  And he stopped dead in his tracks. There stooped over a splintered table in the centre of the room a familiar div. While its exact physique was a mystery, the unhealthy coat of ashen fur could not obscure its bulging muscles. In one hand—large and strong enough to pop his head like a grape—it clutched a wooden spoon.

  So that’s why Ashtadukht had kept a random wooden spoon. He thought she’d left the phylactery with the old star-reckoner. Come to think of it, she’d probably killed him, too.

  Wearing only the one boot, Tirdad drew his sword. It throbbed weakly in his grip, but with a palpable hunger, as if it sensed the prey in front of it. Cautiously, he took a few steps back until he was nearly around the corner. That’s all he got.

  The div turned on him a face like a mudslide. With inhuman speed it crashed through the wall in a spray of gypsum mortar, barrelling into him with its musclebound bust and taking him through the next wall. He careened end over end across the courtyard until he collided with the opposite side.

  “Ugh,” he groaned, pushing himself off the ground with one arm, which lit a fire in his chest and back. He’d felt a series of cracks along the way, and figured his ribs hadn’t come out unscathed. What’s more, his left shoulder had been dislocated. “Fuck,” he spat.

  Before he had time to consider his next move, the div was once again hurtling his way. This time, he managed to leap aside before it crashed through the mortar directly behind him, throwing up a cloud of dust and rubble. Coughing, Tirdad got to his feet.

  “Chobin!” he cried out, hoping the marzban hadn’t ventured out of earshot. “Chobin!”

  He cast about for his sword, relieved to find it by the fountain he had so blithely left not a minute earlier. Too far, he knew, and the div would be the least of his worries. He scrambled over and snatched it up just as the div stepped through the new entrance it’d made.

  One arm hanging limply, ribs in a bad way, Tirdad had his sword at the ready. He wouldn’t be caught on his heels this time around. The div surged forward, bellowing as it did, with saliva flying like repulsive seafoam in every direction. It had its arms out, meaning to sweep him up again—surely to drive him through another wall.

  Tirdad evaded by shuffling aside and ducking under a bicep that could probably take his head off if it tried. As he did, he brought his sword across the div’s gut, and with only one arm behind it, the blade cut clean through with no resistance. As though the marrow, sinew, and entrails would rather come apart willingly than hazard the magpie-black.

  Pivoting as it passed, Tirdad could hardly believe his eyes. He’d nearly hewn it in half, and surely would have if his blade were longer. Too busy trying to hold in its guts to control its charge, the div’s momentum brought it head over heels onto its back, on which it skidded to a messy halt. Torso twisted backward, it did what it could to scoop its tangled organs back in, which was futile. Tirdad grimaced, but not due to his injuries. The div exuded the sort of stink that would make stone queasy. He summarily finished it off, then wiped his sword on its coat, but didn’t sheath it. Better not risk staining the scabbard with its stench.

  “What the everliving fuck?” Chobin strode in, sword and board hanging by his sides. “Heard your shouts. Came as quickly as I could. Why is there a div here?” Then, with an enthusiasm that suggested he’d breached protocol and forgotten the most important part, he gave Tirdad a slap on the back. “Hah! Took it down without me you fingernail-swallowing—”

  Tirdad tensed, either unable or unwilling to speak over the splash of pain excited by the slap. So he groaned.

  “—what?”

  “I think . . .” The planet-reckoner exhaled through his teeth. “I think it cracked a few ribs.”

  The marzban whistled. “Sorry about that. Let’s—”

  A sudden blow sent Chobin soaring over the courtyard wall and out of sight. The div, fully healed but with its top and bottom halves reversed, had shot up within striking distance. A snarl was the only prelude to the cross it threw at Tirdad. He managed to bob and weave bene
ath the boulder of a fist, swinging his sword in an arc that severed the arm at the elbow as he came up.

  Unlike fighting foes with conventional weapons, many divs were a matter of dodging and retaliating—parrying and blocking didn’t quite do the trick. Tirdad had learned as much in his travels, but the blade ached for less dodging and more retaliating. The moment’s hesitation cost him a dodge, and rewarded him with a blow to the abdomen.

  It knocked the air from his lungs, and his blade rattled on the stone. He staggered back a step, but that was all he got before the div followed up with an uppercut to the chest, throwing him up and into the dome above the fountain. Before gravity could take hold, the div pinned him there, its palm pressed against his sternum.

  He screamed.

  Not one long, unbroken scream, but a string of cries limited to the paltry breaths he could suck in. The div would have crushed his ribcage like a walnut.

  If a spear hadn’t been thrust between its eyes.

  Tirdad fell, bouncing off the div as he did and ending up on his back beside the fountain. With a wince that would stick around for weeks, Tirdad fought to sit up, but could only manage to post himself on one elbow. Turns out, he wasn’t as close to the fountain as he’d thought. What he’d heard was an Eshm sister; more specifically, the squelching of her axe as she hacked at the div. She tossed the div’s head, then started on its limbs.

  “What’re . . . what’re you doing?” he asked.

  “Chopping,” the Eshm sister replied, patently irritated by the question. She stopped to indicate the half-severed limb with both hands the way a person does when your answer is right in front of you, you fucking dunce. A few more chops and an arm was flung aside. She was mumbling to herself between swings, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying. He could hardly make her out as it was.

  An attempt at a deep breath proved ill-advised when it stabbed at his lungs, but he needed to be sure Chobin was safe. “Chobin!” he yelled. “Chobin!” As he called, he inched his way toward his sword, which he hadn’t even needed to search for. He could feel its presence now. By time he retrieved it, the Eshm sister was nearly finished. “Chobin!” he yelled again. “Chobin!” The planet-reckoner sidled up the nearest wall for support, and laid the blade across his lap. A hairy leg landed beside him.

  The Eshm sister limped over, and it was only then that he got a good look at her. What he saw stole his breath away same as a knee to the gut had—more, even. The armor had thrown him off at first, but there was no doubt about it: this was Waray. She sported some gnarly new scars—most notably one that profaned her neck—but it was her. She seemed different somehow. Something about her carriage; something in her blood-red gaze as she approached.

  “Howdy your damn self,” she hissed at the wooden spoon she held between two fists, straining to snap it in half, and eventually succeeding. She tossed it at his feet. “Burn the šo-wretched phylactery. I think.”

  “Waray,” he finally managed. “How did—”

  “Shkarag.”

  He had questions, but the intensity of her stare drove them away. That stare continued, unblinking, until she asked what she’d traveled all this way to ask.

  “Did you kill her?” She lowered her spear so the tip prodded his chest. She canted her head. “Did you?”

  He smiled. The timing was abysmal, but he thought he’d seen the last of her idiosyncrasies. Yet here she was worse for wear but alive. Alive! He didn’t care how. But the question remained, and she deserved the truth. “Yes,” he said at length.

  The spearhead pressed harder, then she jerked it back as if she would run him through. It clattered to the ground.

  The high-pitched hiss she emitted defied any he’d ever heard. Any he’d hear as long as he lived. Lamentation poured out of her as if the thread of her soul unwound with it. As if she were coming undone.

  Her knees buckled, but before they could commit, she staggered off, raking at her head. In his sorry state, Tirdad could only watch and await her judgment. With one hand clawing at the scar that ran from her temple and above a nipped ear, her other pulled out her bloodied axe to channel her emotions into feverish chops that found only air.

  The dreadful hiss persisted without interruption as she paced away, then doubled back in a stalk that was unmistakably bloodthirsty, only to cock her head and turn back before she reached him. This went on for an indeterminate time. Long enough for Chobin to appear in the doorway, favouring one leg but ready to strike. Tirdad shook his head and raised his palm. The marzban furrowed his brow confusedly, but ultimately shrugged and took a seat.

  Eventually, Shkarag stalked over less aggressively to stand before him, chest heaving. She swung her axe, though patently uncertain about it. “Who,” she began, canting her head, “who decides, who says, who šo-fucking—” She dragged a hand contorted into a claw over her head, and swung her axe again. “Who kills someone they love?”

  Tirdad frowned. He hadn’t expected such a trenchant question, the very same he’d been flagellating himself with for the last few months.

  “Who?!” she asked, screaming at the top of her lungs. “Who decides to? Who spends their šo-damned life with a person, not this person or that person or some other person but this one person, this one, then just, like some, like some—” She hissed. Another swing. “Turns their back on their love like some dastardly cliff face. And they’re circling you and they don’t understand why if you’re a cliff face they can only see your back. Why, you pinecone-arsed Dourboat-sodomizing coward? Why would you betray your sist . . . er . . . ?”

  The half-div gasped. Her lips moved, but whatever words they were forming were for her alone. She stared through him.

  “I . . . made a mistake,” Tirdad said, avoiding eye contact as he did. “A terrible mistake I’ll surely regret for the rest of my life.” He absently traced the edge of his blade. “At the time, I was too caught up in honour. But the truth is she was injured, Shkarag. And ready for it to be over.”

  “Sister,” the half-div whispered. She gave her axe a lame look, canting her head away from him in shame. “Ashtadukht.”

  “Yeah,” he said. Hoping the situation had been defused, he pulled himself to his feet. “About, uh—” He grimaced and rubbed his neck. “About killing you . . .”

  “An accident,” Shkarag said. “My fault.” She glanced up at him, head tilted slightly. “You said some, said I was a hero.”

  “You were.”

  The tilt deepened. “Want to cleave your šo-double-crossing skull something fierce. All this pomegranate-red bullying like some overprotective sisters who tear you apart to make you stronger. But what about attrition?”

  “I’d really rather you didn’t.”

  “Want it, but . . .” She stepped closer, emanating the bloodlust he’d come to recognize and respect. “Maybe.”

  Tirdad gripped the hilt of his blade, though he knew he didn’t stand a chance. Across the way, Chobin got to his feet.

  “But . . .” She moved in, and in one swift movement, hugged him. “All I have left is some pinecone-arsed quack.”

  An audible sigh of relief escaped Tirdad. His ribs cried out at her attention, but far be it from him to deny her when the alternative was death.

  “What a šo-wretched lot to draw,” she said. “Šo-wretched. To end up with only a quack.” She hugged harder. “The fish head or the egg you forgot in the bottom of your sack and come to find it’s rotten and you wasted all that effort searching for it those months back. But it’s all you have left.”

  “Thanks.”

  She nodded or canted her head. He couldn’t tell.

  “Could you let me go?”

  Shkarag obliged, putting some space between them and stowing her axe. Having deprived them of its haft, her fingers flexed and loosened continuously. The dangerous glint had not left her eyes.

  “Need to see this,” she said, reaching behind her to pull out a roll of leather and paper. It creaked and bunched in her trembling grip. “Ma
ybe.”

  Tirdad furrowed his brow. She’d offered him a blood-stained mess. “What’s this?”

  Her reply carried an uncommon gravitas. “Everything.”

  IV

  “Everything?” Tirdad grumbled. “I can’t make heads or tails of this nonsense.”

  Shkarag stared at him from across the room where she sat, legs out straight, bathing in a pocket of sunlight. She canted her head, but offered no explanation.

  He indicated the leaves of leather and parchment that were spread around him, wincing at the movement. “Rubbings, correspondences, seal impressions, maps . . . I don’t know what I’m looking at, Shkarag.”

  “Everything.” Her eyes flicked away briefly, and the accompanying nod seemed more for herself than him. She answered his exasperated stare with one of her own. “Maybe.”

  Their contest lingered for an uncomfortable stretch until Tirdad heaved a sigh, turning his attention back to the mess.

  The trouble with rib injuries is that there isn’t much to be done about them but rest. So after having Chobin set his arm he’d tried to do just that. Between the pain and this sudden turn of events, he couldn’t sleep a wink. So he’d spent the last few hours going over the contents of the bloody bundle Shkarag had brought him. Only a fool would have expected something straightforward from the half-div.

  Tirdad chuckled and shook his head. “I’m nothing if not a fool.”

  “Šo-foolish,” she agreed.

  “Well,” he said, “fool or not, why won’t you help? You handed these over as though I needed to see them, but all you’ve done since is sit around.”

  “Not won’t.” Shkarag finally looked away, wearing an enigmatic expression. “Can’t.” Her eyes roamed the wilds beyond the window.

  Tirdad reclined, trying and failing to find a comfortable position. Relieved as he was to see her alive, he’d forgotten how irksome she could be where answers were concerned. So he waited.

  “There’s,” she said at length. “There’s—” Agitation plain, she held one hand in a claw by her head. “Ashtadukht explained. She preached like some . . . like some god declaring light is here, here is Everything. And she moved her hands like so.” Shkarag swept her other hand as though spreading a map. “But I was . . .” Her hand flexed. “Overcast.”