Vengeance ttr-1

by Ian Irvine

  ‘Aren’t Purple Pixies dangerous?’

  ‘Yeah,’ leered Lifka. ‘After one taste, I’ll tell ya anythin’. But they numb the pain; numb it good.’

  Tali gnawed a fibrous curl of horse-parsnip. Taking a few Purple Pixies from the grotto’s composter wasn’t that risky, and it would be worth it to hear Lifka’s story. That way out would be heavily guarded, protected in all kinds of ways, but still …

  ‘Tell me about your work,’ she said in a low voice, ‘then I’ll get the Pixies.’

  After checking that no one could overhear, Lifka described the enveloping robes the carriers wore for protection against sunburn, the eel skin sunstone harness and pouch, the loading station, the shaft of a thousand steps to the surface, and the watchful guards below, above and outside in the bowl-shaped valley.

  ‘Ever thought about escaping?’ said Tali, trying to sound casual.

  ‘A girl tried it once,’ said Lifka, staring vacantly at Tali’s nose. ‘Was even prettier than me — ’til they cut everythin’ off.’ She rubbed her shapely nose and full lips, cupped her piquant breasts and shuddered. ‘They let her live, as an example. Ya’d hafta be desperate.’

  Was Tali desperate enough to risk a fate worse than being killed? She had no choice; Tinyhead was coming tonight. Then, as she listened to Lifka’s flat, colourless voice, an escape plan sprang into Tali’s mind. A reckless plan, and if it failed, the guards would cut everything off her, too.

  It wasn’t a nice plan. Tali’s mother would have been appalled; she would have forbidden it. But gentle Iusia was dead, and Mia, and so many others, and Tali was going to survive, whatever it took.

  The plan had many obstacles, and even if she could overcome them all, she would have to use a concealment or confusion spell to get past the watch post, and again at the top of the shaft. Her gift had been close a few minutes ago, but it had retreated again. Who could help her to find it?

  Trust no one.

  Nurse Bet had taught Tali healing charms, but did she know real, darker spell work? Waitie had tutored Tali in the history of Hightspall and the Two Hundred and Fifty Year War, though she blanched every time Tali had even hinted at magery. Then there was Little Nan, who had read Tali the classics, however Nan’s mind was going and she was prone to blurting out confidences.

  Bet was Tali’s only hope, though she had been acting strangely lately, laughing hysterically one minute, weeping the next. She must have discovered how the heatstone mine was killing her only child, and without Sidon she would have nothing to live for. Did that mean Bet could be trusted? There was no choice.

  ‘Guard my dinner,’ she said, trying not to think about the acidulatory. ‘I’ll get you the Pixies.’

  Tali looked down at the glorious piece of baked poulter, a perfectly cooked, crisp-skinned thigh. She craved meat as only a forced vegetarian could but, since the day that masked woman had stood on her mother, snapping her ribs like wishbones, Tali had not been able to choke down a morsel of poulter.

  She swallowed her saliva and rose. Besides, she thought as she went out to the composter, I won’t be doing Lifka much harm, and she was happy to see Tinyhead attack me. And if I don’t do it the killers are going to cut my head open.

  Just like Mama, and Grandmama, and her mama and grandmama.

  CHAPTER 13

  Let it die.

  Rix’s heavy arrow struck the caitsthe between the eyes with such force that it was tumbled across the snow to the edge of the vine thicket. It sprawled there, the fletching sticking out of its forehead, the arrowhead and half the shaft protruding from the back of its skull, its whiptail raising snow flurries as it tied itself in knots. A single thread of blood, luminous in the dull light and thicker than human blood, oozed down the yellow fletching to bead at its lower end.

  Please, please let it die. It was a prayer, not a hope.

  The caitsthe’s back arched, its rear legs kicked three times and the green-gold eyes blinked, then took on a vacant stare, though Rix wasn’t fool enough to think he’d killed it.

  As Tobry scrambled for his sword, the beast howled. Glands at groin, armpits and belly squirted stinking brown fluids that fogged the air around it and shrivelled moss on nearby pebbles. Then, half concealed by vapour, it began to shift, as Rix had known it would — any attack endangering its life must force it to change. Now he had no choice but to fight, for unlike other shifters the caitsthe was a more ferocious predator in its human form.

  ‘Can’t stop it,’ Tobry panted. ‘Shapeshifters heal by partial shifting. Caitsthes — fastest of all. Only way to kill one — ’ He gasped a breath, ‘- tear out its twin livers — ’

  ‘And burn them on a fire fuelled with powdered lead — which we don’t have. But it can still feel pain. It must still breathe.’

  Rix nocked a club-head arrow. It could not kill the caitsthe either, though hitting a vital area might stop the beast for a minute or two. Could he cut out its livers in that time? Impossible! Caitsthes were terrifyingly strong and, even if it could be knocked down, it might take six men to hold it while another hacked open its belly and heaved out armloads of steaming intestines to reach the livers beneath.

  The howl rose to an elongated shriek as the red and black fur began to withdraw through the skin. The tufted whiptail unknotted, the limbs lengthened, then shifted to a more human form so quickly that they blurred. Rix’s skin crawled. The shrieks were shredding his eardrums and a wisp of the brown vapour burned up his nose. He doubled over the saddle horn, gagging — the beast was ranker than a bull warthog.

  ‘Got to try,’ he said, slipping from the saddle.

  ‘Stay back!’ roared Tobry.

  The air thickened in Rix’s throat until he could hardly draw breath. This was his fault. He had known that coming up here was worse than reckless, and Tobry had warned him, but Rix had come anyway.

  ‘I forced it to shift, Tobe. It’s up to me to stop it.’

  It would not revert to cat form until it had slaked its blood-hunger, which might take the young maidens and undernourished children of half a village. And caitsthes’ victims did not die easily. The beasts liked to play with their food.

  The skull lengthened, the small ears glided to the sides and the bent arrow fell away, its metal tip clacking on a pebble. The only sign of injury was a red spot on the creature’s forehead and a stroke-like stiffness to the left side of its face, probably temporary.

  The caitsthe stood up and Rix choked. He was well over six feet but in human form it was seven feet tall and all lean, corded muscle. Man-shaped but lightly furred, it retained the retractable claws, bone-shearing jaws and whiptail of its cat form. To his artist’s eye it was beautiful — a statue in repose, a silky, sensuous machine when it moved. Beautiful but vicious.

  It bounded backwards, faster than any human could have, snatched up his spear and hurled it underhand as Rix fired. His club-head arrow took it in the throat, the impact knocking it off its feet, and the spear went wide.

  ‘Now!’ he roared, dropping his bow to draw the wire-handled sword.

  Was its enchantment strong enough to hold back such an uncanny foe? It had better be. The caitsthe was mewling as it gasped for breath, its windpipe mashed, but they only had moments before it shifted the tissues and began to recover.

  Tobry attacked from the left, swinging at its head. Rix went for the belly, planning to open it from chest to groin in one furious hack and tear out its livers bare-handed. Surely that would weaken the creature enough that they could escape to burn the livers elsewhere.

  Before he reached the caitsthe it came to its knees and backhanded Tobry out of the way, lifting his feet a yard off the ground and spraying spit from his mouth. Rix struck at it but it swayed backwards then sprang at him, slashing with its left hand, then the right.

  Though the creature wasn’t fully recovered, it was faster than he was. Its left-handed blow tore the sleeve from his coat and opened a gash along his left forearm. The right ripped through coat and shirt, barin
g him from chest to belly the way he had planned to attack it and carving long gashes with its two middle claws. Pain sang in their tracks; an inch deeper and it would have torn his guts out. A few inches lower and Lady Ricinus’s plans for an heir would have been lost.

  Rix slashed across the left side of its furred chest. The shallow cut sealed over without shedding blood. The damn sword was supposed to protect him but it lay in his hand like any ordinary weapon. Well, Rix was a master with any blade. He thrust at the caitsthe’s throat, only pinking the right shoulder when it wove aside.

  Tearing off the rags of his coat, he hurled them at the creature, hoping to entangle it, but it ducked. He lunged, making another attempt to open its belly. It sidestepped and sprang high.

  The caitsthe was going for his throat and Rix had no hope of getting his sword into position in time. He dropped into a crouch, then sprang upwards as it passed above him, trying to head-butt it in the groin.

  Its overpowering reek made him gag. Its foot-long, leathery organ struck his right cheek like a belaying pin, then he felt its furry cods split between his skull and its pelvis. His neck bones creaked as he forced with all the strength in his legs, driving the lower half of the creature straight up.

  The caitsthe screamed, cat-like and shrill, turned an involuntary somersault and landed on its back, kicking wildly and clutching its groin. It doubled up, licked itself and, with a strangled howl, hobbled into the vine thicket on all fours. Rix heard it crashing away towards the Crag.

  He swayed and had to hang onto a tree. The strength had gone from his legs and the top of his head, where he’d butted the caitsthe, throbbed as if he’d walked into a Stinging Tree. A hand-sized bruise was rising there, the sickening reek of the creature was all through his hair and his cheekbone burned as if he’d been whipped. The gashes along his arm and chest were just deep scratches … though there was always the risk of infection, blood poisoning, pox or plague.

  ‘Why did it run?’ he said, shaking his head. The attack had passed so quickly that he could not remember how it had gone. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Tobry was staring at him, open-mouthed.

  ‘What?’ said Rix.

  ‘You hurt it in a way it’s never been hurt before.’

  ‘They can feel pain, then? I never thought shifters could.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Tobry. ‘They feel it more keenly than we do.’

  How did he know that?

  Tobry was holding his bloodstained shoulder with one hand, his battered ribs with the other, but he was grinning broadly. ‘That’s something I’ve never seen before. You’re a treat, you really are.’ The grin faded and he wavered towards Rix, wobbly legged. ‘I’ve doubted many things about you — most things, actually — but never your courage …’

  ‘Thanks!’

  ‘But taking on a caitsthe to save my worthless life — that I will never forget.’

  ‘Where did it get to?’ said Rix. Each throb was a nail hammered through his skull. He swayed and hastily sat down. ‘Can you see it?’

  ‘It’s gone.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘You’ve discovered a way to stop the beasts,’ said Tobry. ‘Perhaps the only way.’

  But for how long? And how vengeful would it be when it healed itself? ‘It’s a wonder no one else has done it.’

  ‘Only you would have the balls, if you don’t mind the expression, to head-butt a caitsthe there,’ said Tobry, checking over his shoulder.

  ‘Feels like I’ve been whacked with an iron bar.’ Rix pressed his fingers to his cheek and winced. The welt was exquisitely painful.

  ‘You took a direct hit from a whang the size of a burglar’s cosh.’ Tobry chuckled. ‘You’re going to become a legend. They’ll have to amend the bar sinister on your family crest to a bent todger.’ He snorted.

  Rix imagined what Lady Ricinus would say about that. She was entirely lacking in a sense of humour. ‘How’s your shoulder?’

  ‘Not as sore as my ribs.’

  ‘Are they broken?’

  Tobry probed them gingerly. ‘Might be cracked, but nothing can be done if they are.’ He took the case of potions and bandages from his saddlebags, one-handed.

  Rix cleaned Tobry’s shoulder wound, smeared on a lime-scented unguent and bandaged up the shoulder. Tobry did the same for Rix’s forearm and the chest and belly gashes.

  ‘I’d better attend your cheek as well,’ said Tobry.

  ‘It didn’t break the skin.’

  ‘You don’t know where the caitsthe’s been, or what its — ’

  ‘Proclivities are?’

  ‘Quite. You wouldn’t want to end up with pox or grandgaw.’

  Rix wondered about a caitsthe’s proclivities while Tobry tended the welt across his cheek. No, that was a detail he would prefer to remain ignorant of.

  ‘Now what?’ said Tobry, checking behind him again. And again.

  Rix avoided his eyes. Tobry had not blamed him, but he should have. In bringing him up here, Rix had traded on their friendship, risked Tobry’s life, forced him to face his greatest fear, and for what?

  The urge to cleanse himself in a life-or-death struggle had vanished. Exhausted, cold and aching everywhere, Rix wanted no more than his large, empty bed … but that reminded him why he had left in the first place.

  ‘Let’s go home,’ said Tobry.

  ‘How can I? An injured caitsthe will be twice as vicious when it recovers.’

  ‘Seneschal Parby can send fifty men to hunt it down.’

  Rix could not return to the nightmares, nor the voice ordering him to do terrible things. He worked his thigh muscles. His legs still felt shaky.

  ‘It could kill a dozen people before our soldiers get here.’

  Tobry’s eyes darted towards the thicket, swept the boulders, checked the trees. ‘There’s no one else up here.’

  ‘In a few hours it could be down in the lowlands, hunting women and children.’ Rix eyed the low passage the beast had taken. ‘It’ll be in there somewhere, licking its wounds — ’

  ‘Not an image I care to dwell on.’ Tobry managed a feeble grin.

  He took only friends and pleasure seriously, but Rix felt the overwhelming burden of responsibility. ‘Sorry, Tobe. I don’t have any choice, I’ve got to deal with it. What do you know about the beasts?’

  ‘Not much. They’re uncanny creatures — ’

  ‘You mean enchanted?’ Rix’s voice rose — a block of wood had more magery than he did. His hand slipped to the hilt of his sword, hovered, then gripped it tightly and he felt better. At least its power was on his side.

  ‘I mean they’re not native to Hightspall. No shifters are.’

  ‘But — I thought they’d always been here?’

  ‘The chancellor would like us to think so.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘He doesn’t like people to think he’s not in control.’

  Rix put that worry aside for later. ‘Then where did they come from?’

  ‘I don’t know. The first records of shifters — little jackal-men — only go back a hundred years — ’

  ‘I’m not interested in them,’ Rix snapped. ‘What about caitsthes?’

  ‘They weren’t on the uncanny creatures list when I learned it as a boy.’

  Rix rubbed his cold arms. ‘So they’re new. How did they get here?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘You read books. You know everything. Have a guess.’

  ‘A wildcat fell into a pit of power and was transformed into a caitsthe?’

  ‘What’s a pit of power?’

  ‘Didn’t those expensive tutors teach you anything?’

  ‘Sometimes my mind wanders.’

  ‘Let me know when it comes back.’ Acid had crept into Tobry’s voice; his injuries must be troubling him.

  ‘Just tell me what you know about caitsthes, Tobe.’

  ‘Well, in man-form they’re reasonably intelligent.’

  ‘Ho
w intelligent?’

  ‘Smarter than the average young lord, not that that’s saying much.’

  Rix’s fingers curled around the hilt of his sword, sprang away, clung to it. ‘Then it knows we’ll come after it …’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it’ll be waiting in ambush.’

  ‘They’re vengeful, too. It’ll be planning to attack you where you hurt it.’

  Knowing how close he’d gone to losing his manhood, Rix swallowed painfully. What folly had brought him up here? Well, no choice now. Going down on hands and knees, he headed into the thicket.

  ‘I’m going first,’ said Tobry, coming after him.

  ‘Bugger off.’ Rix centred himself on the track to block the way.

  The path was barely the width of his shoulders and the vines formed a woven wall so close above his head that a three-year-old child could not have stood upright. If it attacked him here, he would not be able to swing his sword. With its superior weight and strength, the caitsthe could pin him against the brambles and tear him apart. Or come at his defenceless rear …

  Halfway in, he stopped to sniff the air. Dark blood spotted the ground here and there and the caitsthe’s rank tang was everywhere. How badly injured was it? Had it healed itself already?

  A second path crossed the first. Rix checked left and right but could not tell if the caitsthe had turned aside. Now it could come at him from three directions.

  ‘See anything?’ said Tobry.

  ‘No.’ It came out as a croak.

  He emerged from the vine thicket, which terminated at a steep talus slope running up against the Crag, itself a mass of knotted rock towering so high that he cricked his neck trying to see the top. The sky had gone the colour of lead and the wind shrilling around the ragged edges of the bluff made his head throb.

  ‘Where’s it gone?’ said Tobry, standing up beside him.

  ‘Don’t know. Haven’t seen blood in a while.’

  ‘We’ll never track it across all this rubble — ’

  ‘Something the matter?’ said Rix, when Tobry did not go on.

  ‘For a second, I thought the cliff face wavered up there.’