An Ill-Fated Sky

by Darrell Drake

  The manticore scrambled to crawl away. Its claws scraped desperately at the ground, making a high-pitched whine to accompany its muddy trumpeting.

  Shkarag gave it no quarter. Her scales vented billows of steam that made the manticore’s mange-infested flesh bubble and run. She leaned into its hip, grinned her crooked, half-moon grin, and with what scarcely amounted to a shove, the bone caved in. Wide-eyed and wild, the beast had only begun to thrash its head when she tore the leg off and chucked it behind her. True to form, she was toying with it. When the manticore got it in its head to roll over and swipe at her, another leg flew end over end by her shoulder.

  To his surprise, in a timbre that was both hers and foreign, in two languages at once, she sang a discordant tune.

  “What quarry’s this,

  whose quarry’s that?

  Not marble, not gypsum,

  some šo-damned cat.

  The manticore’s fight was all but gone; blood stained the snow around it. Its head lolled as she stalked up its remaining leg to stand on its back, still heaving steam, and set to plucking its ribs from its spine. All the while, she went on with her too-merry song.

  “One rib’s just fine,

  and two that’s plenty,

  but three or four,

  cracks a tease too many.

  Her voice became a growl of a hiss, and she cocked her head to turn piercing starling-black eyes on Tirdad. Shkarag ripped out another rib.

  “Storm’s fresh brewing,

  no tea reeks enough.

  But your šo-boiling blood

  that’s the fucking stuff.”

  Looking on, he realized she had never been just Shkarag. She was Shkarag the Wrathful, Shkarag of Brutality, of Violence in War, of Drunkenness, of the Bloody Club, of the Murderous Spear, of the Raving Axe. She threw anger and malice into the hearts of men, encouraged every evil. Eshm wasn’t just her father; he was part of her.

  Still, he told himself, she was foremost Shkarag of his Heart. This is what he thought as she turned on him, and the last thing he remembered.

  XVII

  Tirdad awakened to the telltale crackling and popping of a fire. Soon to join was a rotten egg aroma. With it, a touch of charred wood and old leather.

  “Stirring, goat-fucker,” said Shkarag, breath tickling his nose.

  Chobin grunted. “I can see that just fine, skink-slicker.”

  Tirdad grimaced at the dull but persistent throbbing in his left leg, and opened his eyes. Shkarag hovered inches above, and Chobin knelt by his side wearing a worried smile. Behind him, the burgundy canvas of their pavilion rustled in an outside wind.

  “Nngh,” he said. “What happened?”

  Shkarag pressed a brief kiss to his lips before sitting back. She found somewhere else to look.

  “Skink-slicker almost did you in,” said Chobin. “Reckon stopping her is about the only good thing that sturgeon-kissing star-reckoner has done since persuading himself into my campaign.”

  “I . . .” Tirdad tried to concentrate, but the throbbing in his leg was giving him a hard time of it. “Star-reckoner,” he muttered. “Star-reckoner.”

  “What about him?” asked Chobin. “He’s a bit of a prick, but—”

  Tirdad snatched the marzban by the lapel, and pulled himself face to face. He remembered why they’d come.

  “Did you know?” he asked, bearing a stormy calm that could have belonged to Ashtadukht. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Shkarag move to block the pavilion’s exit. Chobin must have too, because his uneasy smile became all the more toothsome.

  The marzban rubbed the back of his neck. “Never took you for one to show off. Admit to appreciating your flair, though—charging in at the head of a wedge just in the nick of time. Not to mention the two of you fighting side by side like something out of legend. Pretty much stole my thunder what with your—”

  Tirdad jerked his lapel. “Don’t think I won’t kill you here and now, Chobin. Answer me.”

  Though it persisted, the marzban’s smile sobered. “What in the everliving fuck do you think I knew?”

  It took everything he had not to reach for his sword. “Don’t be coy. What your family did to mine. To Ashtadukht.”

  Chobin averted his gaze, which was answer enough.

  “You knew.”

  “Only recently. I swear to you, I had nothing to do with it.”

  “How recently?”

  “Father told me while you were in Ray. Said I should know in order to better protect myself should your family discover the truth.”

  Tirdad released Chobin and laid back. He supposed it could’ve been worse. He could’ve had to kill Chobin. Now, he didn’t know what to do. A man, especially a good man like Chobin, should not be made responsible for the actions of his father, no matter how reprehensible.

  “I should have Shkarag put you down,” he said. “The damage can’t be undone, but it would inflict upon your family a heavy blow.” He then recalled his chance encounter with his cousin during their stop at the port. He allowed himself a self-deprecating chuckle. “I know I should. If my family were here, they would demand it. But . . .” He sighed, shaking his head at his past self. “I really thought I’d do it. Now that I’m here, I can’t even entertain the thought.”

  “I will consider myself lucky then.”

  “Do that.” Tirdad shifted in a vain attempt to make his leg more comfortable. “And tell me something why don’t you?”

  “Anything.”

  “Why’d they do it?”

  The marzban’s smile became a grimace. “Power, to those less privileged. Your uncle had the ear of the King of Kings, and that became an easy scapegoat. Father claimed there was more to it, but refused to tell me outright.” Chobin cleared his throat. “Did slip here and there, and well, I think your uncle fucked his first wife. Don’t think her suicide was an accident either.”

  Tirdad couldn’t hide his astonishment. “That’s . . . news to me.”

  “News to everyone, I imagine.”

  “You could’ve told me.”

  “Know it wasn’t my place to decide, but thought you were better off not knowing. You’ve been through a lot as is.” Chobin’s grin vanished. “Truth be told, I was afraid you’d hate me.”

  Tirdad wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he turned his attention to Shkarag. She wore an overlarge tunic obviously loaned from Chobin, which was bunched at the waist by her lapis lazuli girdle. In defiance of a gaping hole and many missing inlays, it was intact.

  He envisioned her transformation, the sheer power and cruelty of it. There was something intoxicating about seeing her like that. As wondrous as any feat of nature. But she’d been terrified of it. He now knew why: it divulged her of control.

  “How’re you feeling?” he asked.

  “. . .” She set her head askew, palm resting on the butt of the axe he’d given her. “Here. I think.”

  It warmed his heart to see her casual bearing. Had she been tense, it might’ve signalled an uncertainty over what’d transpired. Guilt, if not worse.

  “Glad you got a chance to blow off some steam,” he joked, hoping to further ease any worries she might entertain.

  Shkarag grinned, crooked and glintless.

  “She nearly plucked you apart like flower petals,” Chobin saw fit to add. “Had you by wrist and foot.”

  Tirdad didn’t take his eyes off her. The marzban didn’t know the half of it. With what he’d detected in Shkarag, she could have gone toe to toe with a forty-armed div.

  “Better her than some faceless spear,” he said, sitting up, and feeling as though his skull were dense with mist. He bunched his face and ran a hand over it, which did nothing for it. “What’d you give me?”

  “Something is fucking wrong with you two. Still.”

  “Roots,” answered Shkarag.

  After gathering his thoughts a moment, Tirdad reached out to clasp Chobin’s forearm. “I’ve acted like an onager of late.”

 
“Hah!” Spirits so easily lifted, the marzban slapped his thigh. “We’re a pair of onagers, you and I, stubborn, packing a mean kick, and, most of all, an ass.”

  “Yeah.” Tirdad tried to run a hand through his hair, but it was tangled and matted with blood. “Did you retrieve my horse?”

  “Skink-slicker did.”

  “That’s good; the horse is a treasure. Listen, Chobin.” He posted on one palm to lean in, giving credence to the severity of his delivery. “I haven’t forgotten the gravity of your gesture. Your offering to restore my status. You need to know that. Haven’t forgotten our friendship either. You’re a brother to me. All this—” Tirdad sighed and furrowed his brow. Whatever he was getting at was being mighty evasive.

  Chobin offered a soft grin, looking wiser than his years, and gripped Tirdad by the shoulder. “You taught me empathy more than my father ever could. You’ve always cared too much, shown compassion where others would not.” He gestured to Shkarag. “Like you do with her. I figure that’s a double-edged blade. Something like Ashtadukht happens to you, and no mourning period will be enough. That you’ve come this far is a testament to your strength, my friend. Lesser men would have lost themselves.”

  Knowing what he did, Tirdad couldn’t make eye contact. Somewhere along the line, he had lost himself. To change wasn’t necessarily shameful, but the truth of the matter was that he wasn’t the man he used to be.

  “So,” Chobin continued, leaning back and crossing his arms, “enough of this fucking wallowing! I wasn’t done savouring your flair, and you’ll let me finish this time whether you want to run me through or not.”

  “My what?”

  “Oh, now you’re playing coy, you sturgeon-kissing snake fucker.” The marzban stooped to fetch a ewer and a pair of glasses, wasting no time in filling them before handing the ewer to Shkarag. He emptied his before going on. “There I was, nocking arrows as fast as my fingers could manage, which wasn’t very considering how fucking frosty it is out there, when I look up and—” Chobin unsheathed his sword, waving it with a flourish. “—there you are all a storm of swords and axes, blades flashing like lightning. I’ve seen my share of battles, you know that, but—hah! The spectacle of it all. That, well, that’s the battle of a lifetime. Fuck me with a fishing rod if I’ve seen a woman as beautiful, and you know how it goes around bivouacs.”

  “Yeah,” Tirdad chuckled. Shkarag poured him another glass without his asking, which he drank with gusto. “You’re busy.”

  “Youth,” said Chobin, as if it were explanation enough. His grin widened at that. “But the two of you fighting alongside one another looked as natural and as awe-inspiring as anything I’ve ever seen. Meant it when I called you something out of legend. Fucking legendary, that’s what you were. Like you always knew where and when the other needed you. Colour me fucking impressed. Dye me awestruck. Slackjawed, sure as fuck.” He leaned forward, a mischevious glint to his eye. “What’s a man have to do to hook up with one of those sisters of yours?”

  Shkarag was not amused. She finished off the ewer and held it in her lap. Were it not for her fangs, menacing and exposed, she would have looked nothing like an instrument of destruction in her absurd tunic. A hiss took purchase on her throat.

  “All right, all right,” said Chobin, shrugging and patently amused with himself. “You’re into some eldritch sort of threshing anyway. Sort of person to look to pinecones for inspiration.”

  Tirdad grimaced at that. “Please don’t give her any ideas. Besides, are you really going to antagonize her after what she did down there?”

  “Point taken,” Chobin said, grunting. “But now that you mention it, what the everliving fuck was that?” He stooped for another ewer, and offered it to Shkarag, grin wide as ever. “Entertain the question and it’s all yours.”

  Meaning to speak up, Tirdad held his tongue. This was the sort of back and forth banter you’d expect over wine after a battle—even if it was more one-sided where she was concerned. He admitted to being too defensive for her sake, when she seemed perfectly fine with it. Plus, Chobin was treating her like any other soldier. Tirdad respected that.

  Shkarag gave him one of her inscrutable glances, tied together by the clinking of her nails on the ewer in her lap. It persisted well into the territory of what would have been awkward if it were anyone else, before breaking off to accept the wine.

  “Maybe,” she said, proceeding to chug the contents. She set her head askew, deliberating the tarp above. But for its flapping, another bout of silence intervened before she spoke up.

  “That,” she said, “is the hunt, šo-bloody and šo-pure, searching for how to best be true to your lust like some, like some—” Shkarag leaned back on her hands. The ewers fell from her lap to roll in either direction. “Not pure. Not that.” Her face screwed up in thought. “What’s the, the—prurient. Šo-prurient. That’s—”

  “Shkarag,” Tirdad interrupted. “He’s asking about your . . . transformation during our encounter with the manticore. If you’re willing, I’d like to hear it as well.”

  “Maybe,” she replied. Shkarag swept her wavering gaze over the pavilion, finding one ewer then the other. “A pittance, that wine. A šo-damned pittance.”

  Affectedly exasperated, Chobin held up a finger, then left the tent, soon to return with a jar in tow. After waving away the man who’d helped him carry it over, he returned to his seat. “Have at it, skink-slicker.”

  Shkarag bared her fangs, though fleetingly; she finished the jar off in no time. After giving it a moment to sink in, she began.

  “I’ll—” She made to lean back again, but ended up flat on her back. “I’ll narrate the, spin the, tell the thing,” she went on as if it hadn’t happened. Her head rolled to address Tirdad. “For you.”

  He smiled and inclined his head.

  She turned her face to the canopy, followed shortly by her eyes. “They say, they say Eshm is all so much—” Shkarag raised a claw beside her head. “All so much everything. But they don’t half the, know the half of it.” She let her arm fall limp. “Too much. All so much everything is too much. There’s a planet inside of you, raging and bucking and ravening and it’s too much for one person.” She craned to peer at Tirdad from an odd angle. “Too much for me.”

  Disbelief and confusion joined in the furrows of his brow. “That’s figurative isn’t it? You don’t mean to tell me there’s an actual planet inside you.”

  “Not the only one cavorting in the celestial theatre. Revolving even now.”

  “That’s fucking absurd,” Chobin stated.

  If she’d heard him, Shkarag paid him no heed. “Full-blooded sisters can contain it. Turns out, turns out being half human revokes the, makes it tricky. Would’ve put me down, but Stahm, she pledged to snuff out the human in me.”

  “W—” The name stretched as if she were reeling it from her cords, a web tangled in the claw of her fingers as they raked the ground. “Waray was šo-fierce. Convinced Stahm she needed that thousand- year torture just so—”

  Shkarag clammed up, and the sorrow in her eyes made her audience look away. She made several attempts to reach into her egg pouch before coming to terms with it being gone. When she finally spoke up, it was hard-edged. “Planet storms and thunders like some, like some šo-clattering die too enthusiastic, buoyant and gleaming ear to ear, because it knows, it knows its life is falling apart, and the moment its clattering quietens everything it loves will cease to exist. So you can never let it show you a side. The clattering must go on. Always.”

  She closed her eyes as if just discussing it was enough to exhaust her, and in that, reminded him of just how ancient she was. “But that’s just as the crow flies.”

  When it became obvious she had nothing left to say, Chobin took it upon himself to fill the silence. “Well, planet or no planet, I’m convinced you’re not to be fucked with. Why not do that all the time? You’d be damn near unstoppable!”

  “Were you even listening?” asked Tirdad.
r />   Chobin shrugged. “Much as anyone can.”

  “Goat-fucker,” Shkarag grumbled.

  Shaking his head and wearing a full-toothed grin, Chobin planted a palm on his knee and leaned toward Tirdad. “So, how about you set the record straight. Did you or did you not fuck forty divs, and were they broom-kebabs?”

  Tirdad brightened at the memory of Shkarag’s prank, and recounted it fondly. Together, he and Chobin spent the hours that followed drinking and reminiscing until sunset.

  Eventually, Chobin cleared his throat, sounding as if he’d concluded some inner discourse and was determined to see it through. “It’s been a fucking pleasure catching up, and I hope you choose to stick around this time, my friend. Can’t undo Father’s sins, can’t reinstate your family or clear their name, but perhaps there is something I can do to repay you.”

  He flashed his trademark grin, pushing off his knees to stand. “Wasn’t just any star-reckoner out there: it was the fucking family star-reckoner. The very same who persuaded his peers to turn on you and yours. Same fucker who relays your whereabouts and deeds to the King of Kings. He’ll no doubt call for your imprisonment in Castle Oblivion if you don’t join my family. But here’s the thing: he drew three lots just to subdue Shkarag.”

  “So?”

  Shkarag hissed. “Šo-tyrannical star-fucker.”

  “So,” said Chobin, starting for the exit, “he’s old and frail and drew three lots. Three.” He stopped with the flap half open to glance back and add, meaningfully, “He’s a toenail-swallowing rat, and our nation would be better off without him.”

  With that, Chobin departed.

  Shkarag took a seat by Tirdad’s side and immediately set to kneading her thigh. In the course of her task, she regarded him pensively.

  Tirdad returned her stare in kind. “What?”

  “. . .”

  “You look ridiculous in that tunic.”

  She gave herself a once over, then cocked her head slightly. “Maybe.”