by Phil Tucker
Jarek blew out his cheeks, stood, and whirled his hammer around once. “Behind me.”
“Might not be a good idea,” said Acharsis. “How about we run instead?”
“No,” said Jarek. “This is my city. I’ll not flee like a dog.”
The black-robed figure rose lithely to his feet and drew a curved blade from behind his back.
The metal didn’t reflect the moon. Iron? Bronze?
“Who are you?” he asked again, in that same haunting voice.
Jarek stalked toward him. The cuts dealt by the spears of the dead pained him no more. Instead, he felt a righteous fury suffuse him, a deadly determination that left him cold and focused.
At the very last moment, Jarek burst forward and swung down at the man’s shoulder, seeking to collapse it into his ribcage. The masked man swayed around Jarek’s hammer, flickering like a black flame, and then danced around him, dragging his blade across Jarek’s stomach.
Jarek felt his flesh part beneath the blade’s wicked kiss, and a hot flood of blood ran down his hip. He dropped to one knee and spun, swinging his hammer back and around to catch the man in the legs.
Instead, his opponent dove over the hammer, came up out of his roll and smashed right into Acharsis’ fist. The blow cracked into his mask, snapping his head back, and then Acharsis cursed and backed away, shoving his hand under his armpit.
But the distraction was enough. Ignoring his wound, Jarek stood and brought his hammer down in an overhead swing at the back of the staggering figure’s head.
Then, somehow, the figure blurred. Somehow, he turned and dropped to one knee. Jarek’s hammer slowed and came to a stop. The figure had caught the head of the Sky Hammer in the palm of his free hand.
Jarek struggled, both fists wrapped around the hammer’s shaft, rising to the balls of his feet as he sought to bring all of his strength and weight to bear.
The bone-masked man betrayed no effort, no emotion. Narrow and saturnine, he stared up at Jarek in complete silence. Then, slowly, the figure rose to his feet, pushing back against Jarek’s weapon.
Sweat burned Jarek’s eyes. His muscles strained, and then the figure released the hammer. Jarek stumbled forward, off balance, and the figure slid his blade down Jarek’s back.
Pain tore through him. He cried out and almost fell, then turned and backed away from the robed figure, who stared back at him, head cocked to the side again. He looked down at his sword, then up at Jarek once more.
The pain in Jarek’s side and back hit him in waves, but he gritted his teeth and pushed it down. “Acharsis. Take Annara and run.”
“Not a chance,” Acharsis said, stepping up beside Jarek with his bent bronze blade.
“You don’t even know how to swing that thing,” growled Jarek. “Go!”
“I’m not leaving your side,” said Acharsis. “Not this time around.”
“Neither am I,” said Annara, and, to Jarek’s shock, she stepped up as well, spear held before her. “Scythia demanded that we learn how to defend ourselves. I’ll see how much I remember.”
“Idiots,” Jarek said as the robed figure approached once more. His back was stiffening up, and his focus was slipping because of the blood loss. “Run!”
“Flank it,” Acharsis said to Annara, moving out wide. “Go!”
But it was no good. They were all dead; the certainty of that hit Jarek like a cave-in. He had yet to even land a blow on the creature.
He inhaled deeply, fighting back the pain. So be it. At least he’d die in Rekkidu. At least he’d die fighting for Alok. No matter that he was twenty years too late.
“All right, then,” he growled as the masked figure came closer.
Each beat of his heart felt like the pounding of a funeral gong. Nekuul was here with them, he knew – waiting, hand outstretched, ready to pluck their souls from their flesh.
“Ready?” He raised his hammer high. “Now!”
Chapter 7
Acharsis screamed and threw himself forward, bringing his curved blade down with a rising sense of futility and horror. Even as he attacked, he knew he would miss, that his blade would slice through empty air – and so it did, the masked figure seeming to melt into black fog as Acharsis cut through where the man’s shoulder should have been. The figure folded himself between Acharsis’ blade and Jarek’s hammer, slipping through the interstice, and then somehow he was out and beside Acharsis, close enough to lean against.
Oh, too slow. Too many years had passed since Acharsis had fought for his life; too many years with his feet propped up on a desk counting numbers as his tendons stiffened and his reflexes dulled. He fought to turn, to riposte – something, anything - but it was already too late.
The figure slammed a sharp elbow against his chest and lifted him off his feet. Acharsis fell back, hit the dusty roof and rolled, losing his sword, and came up coughing, retching, fighting for breath. The masked figure hadn’t even bothered to strike at him with his blade.
Wheezing, Acharsis climbed back up onto his feet, and saw their enemy step past Jarek again, cutting at his thigh with a blow that would have cleaved through a slender tree. Instead, the sword slid off Jarek’s thigh, leaving a wet trail of blood that gleamed in the moonlight. It had failed to bite deep into the bunched muscle.
Jarek’s skin had once been as hard as stone, rendering him invulnerable to all but the mightiest of blows. Even now, Acharsis realized, Alok’s blessing protected him from the worst of the attacks, reducing what should have been a crippling blow to a glancing flesh wound. Hope flared in Acharsis’ chest and then guttered. Even if it took the masked man twenty cuts instead of one, they were doomed.
Annara stabbed her spear at the man, but he simply ignored her; all her jabs and cuts missed him as he moved forward to engage Jarek once more. The demigod stood panting for breath, hammer held two-handed over his right shoulder, blood gleaming in the night.
Acharsis timed his throw just right. He waited for the precise moment Jarek went to swing and hurled his sword at the masked man, a wild throw that sent his blade whipping at the man’s back.
The man somehow sensed the coming sword and bent backwards, Acharsis blade spinning over him. He turned his bend into a back flip, and Jarek’s hammer missed him by inches and smashed down onto the roof. Huge cracks snaked out through the clay, an entire chunk collapsing down into the rooms below.
The masked man landed neatly on his feet, then leaped straight up and kicked Jarek across the face.
Jarek’s head snapped back, his whole body following a moment later. He spun in the air, twisted like a rag doll, hit and rolled and lay still.
The masked man landed lightly, and Acharsis gaped at him. Who was he? He wasn’t even breathing heavily. For that matter, Acharsis couldn’t hear him breathing at all.
Annara fell back and exchanged a terrified glance with Acharsis.
Jarek groaned and began to rise slowly to all fours.
“Enough,” whispered the man. “It’s time to end this.”
He walked toward Jarek, swaying to the side only so as to dodge Annara’s hurled spear. Acharsis thought of trying to tackle him, simply charge right at him, but he was paralyzed by despair. He’d never felt so helpless. He saw Jarek shake his head, trying to clear it, but the battle was over.
The masked man raised his blade high, lining up the cut with Jarek’s neck.
A curtain of darkness rippled across the rooftop. Undulating like a rivulet of water escaping from an irrigation ditch, it cut between the masked man and Jarek.
At the same time, the moon began to grow brighter, forcing Acharsis to shield his eyes. Although the rest of the rooftop glowed in the silver light, he saw that the masked man was engulfed in shadows, wrapped and smothered by moving darkness.
“Hurry!” called an old woman worriedly.
She was standing on a rooftop one building over. A slave, thought Acharsis, or a beggar. She was wearing a rough-spun robe, and her features were worn and weathered by a life of hard living. Her hai
r was a gray cloud around her head.
“There’s not much time!” she cried.
The aching fear in her voice reached through Acharsis’ stupor and spurred him to action. The rooftop was now dappled with patches of absolute night and stunning lunar illumination, all of it centered on the masked man, who flailed and leaped and sought to escape the alternating patches of darkness and the glare of the moon to no avail.
Running low, Acharsis reached Jarek and slipped his friend’s arm over his shoulder. With a grunt, he helped him stand, picked up his Sky Hammer and bit back a curse. How the hell did Jarek swing the damned thing around? But fear gave him strength, and he staggered toward the other rooftop, picking up speed as he went, forcing Jarek to stumble, then run.
The alley between the two buildings was little more than a yard, but Jarek barely cleared it.
Annara was right behind them.
The silver-haired woman reached up and muttered to the moon, hesitated as if second-guessing herself, then hurried to a trapdoor. She knelt with difficulty and climbed down, pausing only to gesture for them to follow.
Annara went next, then Acharsis helped the groggy Jarek descend. He paused before following. The far rooftop was still a labyrinth of brilliance and shadow. He could hear the high-pitched keening of the masked man and could make out hints of his frenzied movement as he lurched here and there as he fought to get his bearings.
Acharsis hurried down, breathing hard, and leaped the last few rungs to see the others already rushing out a narrow door. The old woman moved with the speed and purpose of a fleeing mouse, leading them at a run through a winding series of streets and alleys, moving ever deeper into Rekkidu’s poor quarter. Few people were out, and those who were pointedly ignored them.
At long last, the woman ducked through a doorway so narrow that Jarek had to turn sideways to follow her, and they entered a dark room. Acharsis stood beside his companions, waiting, and then a red glow appeared as the woman withdrew a live coal from a small coffer and set about lighting candle wicks. The candles glowed with a soft, nacreous light – otherworldly and beautiful, like moonlight caught in mountain mist.
Finally, the last candle was lit and she turned to regard the three of them, blinking owlishly and pulling back her wild hair with both hands. “Moon candles,” she said, gesturing at the candles as if they might not know to what she was referring. “They’ll hide us from their searching.”
Jarek took one step to his left and sank onto a stool with a grunt. He rested his forearms on his knees, head hanging low.
“Thank you,” said Acharsis, trying to understand, to wrap his mind around everything that had just taken place. Was she an owlwoman?
The old woman looked on the verge of fleeing, her mouth opening and closing, one hand washing the other. She was, in her own way, fascinating; she was wearing a mélange of different pieces of cloth over her small frame, each a castaway or scrap worked into a greater whole, a tapestry of sorts, the effect of which was warm and pleasing. Browns and faded yellows, deep umbers and rich burgundies. Her face was dominated by her eyes: searching and wary, alert, gleaming with a subtle intelligence.
Acharsis stepped forward, spreading his hands wide and forcing a smile. “My name is Acharsis. My companion on the stool is Jarek, and this is Annara.”
Annara blew a lock of black hair away from her face and pushed her shoulders back, summoning a smile and inclining her head graciously. “We are in your debt, kind lady. Without you…” Her smile grew strained.
“Yes, well, perhaps some tea first. Some tea always lubricates conversation, lets the words flow, sets guests at ease, doesn’t it? Yes, I find that it does. Or I have, the few times I’ve hosted strangers…”
The old woman’s words became a mutter as she stooped over a small pot set over a bed of dying coals. She stirred them back to life, added kindling until tongues of flames curled out reluctantly and caught.
Acharsis raised an eyebrow to Annara, then turned to examine one of the candles. He’d never seen its like. The wax was fine, as smooth as marble, and as pale as rendered fat. The flames were silver and the length of his fingers.
“These candles,” he said.
The old woman paused in the act of pouring water into the pot, remained hunched over the fire.
“Where did you get them?” Acharsis asked.
“Moon candles, yes,” she said. “Blessed by Ninsaba herself.”
So, not an owlwoman, thought Acharsis.
“Each made in her light,” continued the old woman. “When she shone full, and the wick – the wick is my own hair, paltry worshiper that I am, but it suffices. It obscures. Occludes. Obfuscates. Or so we’d best hope.” She poured the rest of the water, then set her pail aside and smoothed her palms down her hips. “Your friend? Jarek? A worthy name.” She peered at him. “It was his aura that I sensed, his burning in the night…” Her words trailed off, and she placed her fingers over her mouth. “Jarek? You did say his name is Jarek?”
“Yes,” said Acharsis. “It’s possible you recognize him.”
Her face paled. “Ninsaba’s horns. Jarek, son of Alok?”
Jarek raised his face. Lines of pain were carved deep around his eyes and bracketed his mouth. “Yes. Once.”
The old woman fell to her knees. “Oh, but you’re dead! You were taken under Nekuul’s’ cloak. What are you doing here? How are you - but -”
“It’s all right,” said Acharsis, stepping forward and taking her hand. It was as light as a bird’s, and strangely smooth and uncallused. “He’s been hauling trees in the mountains these past few years, biding his time. Come, it’s all right.” He helped her over to a worn rope chair.
Jarek was studying her worn visage with a frown. “I know you. From somewhere.”
“Ishi,” she said. “Ishi, once called Ishkirella, devotee of Ninsaba. You used to call me a mad vulture for how I challenged your edicts.”
“Ishkirella, yes.” Jarek straightened with a wince. “I do remember you. You gainsaid everything I ordered. I used to dread your approach.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Now, I can only give thanks.”
“Have you come to cast down Akkodaisis?” Her voice was marbled with fear and hope, and Acharsis couldn’t tell whether she longed for or dreaded a yes.
The water began to boil in the pot, and Annara moved smoothly around them to pour it into clay cups. She paused with a frown to regard the dozens of small woven packets of herbs and then opened some at random to shake the contents in with the water.
“No,” said Jarek. “Just to help a boy. Elu. The son of Annara, over there.”
Ishi gave Annara a worried glance, then smoothed down her variegated robe, patted at her hair and sat up straighter. “Well, you won’t accomplish much if you go blazing around Rekkidu like you just did.”
“No,” Jarek agreed wearily and lowered his head again. “No.”
“Blazing?” asked Acharsis.
“Yes, blazing. A godsblood has trouble enough hiding, but a demigod? All out in the open? You’ll draw attention like honey draws ants.”
Acharsis felt like a fool. “We should have thought of that.” He moved over to Jarek and knelt beside him. “Your wounds?”
Jarek merely grunted.
Ishi rose. “Move him to my bed, there. Let’s take a look at them. I know something of the healing arts.”
Jarek lay down on the pallet, which groaned alarmingly beneath his weight, and closed his eyes as Ishi and Acharsis bent over him. The wounds were long but not deep; they already seemed to be scabbing over.
“Jarek in truth,” whispered Ishi.
Acharsis rubbed at his jaw. “That thing was hitting him full-on. I guess Jarek’s skin hasn’t lost all of its… blessing.”
“Leave him be,” said Ishi, pulling him away. “Sleep is what he needs. None of my herbs or arts. Leave him be.” But she remained where she was standing, gazing down at him.
“Tea’s ready,” Annara said wryly. “Though I’m not sure wha
t I’ve brewed.” She stepped forward, a cup in each hand.
“I see you’ve not lost your touch,” said Acharsis with a grin, taking his cup and Jarek’s stool.
“Lost?” Annara raised an eyebrow. “I never had it.” Then she blinked at him and groaned. “Oh. That’s what you meant.”
She stuck out her tongue at him and extended the other cup to Ishi, but the old lady took her by the wrist instead and lifted her sleeve, revealing the burgundy tattoos that marked her wrist and forearm.
Annara drew her hand back sharply, spilling the tea.
“A priestess of Scythia,” said Ishi. She reached out and took her tea, then retreated to her rope chair, moving backward, her gaze frank and speculative. “At your age, you’d have been perhaps twenty when the Purging took place?”
“Twenty-five,” Annara said stonily.
“But you’ve none of Scythia’s blood in you, do you? Consider that a blessing, my dear.” Ishi sat, the ropes barely creaking beneath her weight. “Though you were favored, I’d warrant from the extent of your markings. A talented devotee. Mmm? You’ve done well to avoid notice all these years.”
“Or so I thought,” said Annara, moving to claim her own cup. She sniffed at it, wrinkled her nose in distaste, and set it down. “Until a leech of Irella’s took my son and delivered him to Akkodaisis’ ziggurat.”
Ishi took a sip of her tea, then spat it out. “You brewed ashwort?”
Annara raised an eyebrow. “I take it that’s not a good thing.”
“Unless you’re fond of loose bowels, no.” Ishi stared into her cup. “And is that joja weed?” She turned her stare on Annara. “You’re a skilled poisoner, my dear.”
“That’s what I said when she first cooked me dinner,” said Acharsis.
Annara scowled. “Scythia’s devotees were not famed for their tea-brewing skills.”
“Fair enough,” said Acharsis. “How about we focus on Akkodaisis’ ziggurat instead?”
Ishi sniffed. “Now that my life is no longer in peril, yes. What has his ziggurat to do with fighting a deathless on a tavern roof?”
