Enemy (On the Bones of Gods Book 1)

by K. Eason

  Their punishment fit their worship, Dominita. The cult was savage. Lawless.

  Child Dekklis had been horrified, fascinated, driven to nightmares of imagination. Adult Dekklis, chained and prisoner to Taliri who’d impaled a living K’Hess Kenjak, decided, dry-eyed and awake, she did not care if the half-blood worshipped toadshit and snails, so long as she saved Istel’s life. Let her eat Alviri babies later and swear by whatever gods she liked, so long as Istel didn’t die here.

  But that pole. The letters carved into it. Taliri prayers, Snow had predicted, and maybe that was true. The Taliri had never been easy neighbors, superstitious and violent, a collection of tribes held together by common language and common hatred of all things Illhari. They had been allies of the Alviri thegns long ago, murdering any Dvergir fool enough to set foot Above. But then the Dvergiri legion emerged from Illharek, wielding both godmagic and conjuring. They smashed the thegns and scattered the Taliri mercenaries who fought with them. Forged the Illhari Republic across what had been Alvir territory. Offered citizenship to its defeated enemies, which the Alviri took, more or less. But the Taliri had rejected the offer. Taken up raiding instead, and they didn’t discriminate between old allies and new enemies. But their gods had never demanded living sacrifice before, either.

  Dekklis rocked onto her hip. Pitched her voice beneath Teslin’s clank and snarl. “Snow. You get a look at that pole? I saw you looking before, when we passed it. Is it prayers?”

  The half-blood flicked a narrow stare at her. “Couldn’t tell.”

  “Prayers mean gods.”

  “Your tutors teach you that, Szanys?” Snow clamped both hands around Istel’s arm. Squeezed hard enough that he gasped. “Need some of his sleeve. Or yours. Long strips.”

  Dekklis blinked. “What?”

  “I can’t tear them myself, yeah?”

  Hell. Dekklis couldn’t reach her own sleeves, either. Twisted and crabbed closer to Istel and tugged at his undamaged wrist. Wet wool, and silk under that. Nothing that wanted to rip.

  Teslin slouched past them. Eclipsed the guard behind broad shoulders.

  “My boot,” hissed Snow, and thrust out her left leg. “In the cuff. Hurry.”

  Dekklis fumbled, double-handed, at the leather. Wet, heavy, oiled and scuffed and stiff under cold fingers. But she found the tiny pocket folded into the seam. Plucked the narrow blade out and tucked it into her palm.

  Wicked thing. Sharp.

  “How many of these you hiding, half-blood?”

  “As if I’ll tell you. Just cut me bandages, yeah? Fast.”

  “Cutting. You want the guard to see?” But Dekklis sawed at the wool. Good-quality weave, hell and damn. First time she wished second best on the legion. Third best. Motherless beggar’s robes, right now, if it meant easy cutting.

  Teslin fetched up hard at the end of the chain. Dekklis braced against the sudden drag, feet slipping in the snow and mud. Held the tiny knife, didn’t drop it. Held her breath, too, behind gritted teeth, until Teslin swung a half circle and started back.

  Clink and rattle, louder than the curse Dekklis kept under her breath.

  “Got it,” she told Snow. “How many strips you need? How big?”

  “Two strips. Three, if you can man—” And then the half-blood locked up, corpse-stiff. Squeezed her eyes shut. A muscle knotted in her narrow jaw. She greyed as pale as Istel and hissed something under her breath.

  A name, sounded like. Or a curse. Briel, whatever that meant. Maybe another name for her Laughing God. Maybe a lover. Dekklis was half a breath from asking are you all right? when Snow shook her head hard, as if to clear it. Squeezed her eyes shut and held them like that.

  “What is it?” Dekklis asked, low-voiced.

  The eyes cracked. Blue gleamed through pale lashes. “Nothing.”

  “Toadshit. You hurt? Take a headshot?”

  “No and no.” Snow shook her head again. Her eyes flashed in the fireglow. “Guard’s watching us close, Scout. You want to tell your friend to sit down before she brings him over here?”

  Dekklis cleared her throat. “Teslin. Sit. You’re getting attention. If he comes over here, we’ve got trouble.”

  “If? What the fuck we in now, Dek, you tell me that?” Teslin’s voice climbed. Peaked and broke.

  “We’re still alive.”

  Stark fear in Teslin’s eyes, and grief, and all of it tinder awaiting a spark. “Barkett’s not. Neither’s Kenjak or Ollu. Whole fucking camp’s dead, yeah? We’re next.”

  “We’re in no shape to run.”

  “There’s one of him. We can take him.”

  Dekklis closed her eyes and counted five and opened them again. “Teslin. Sit. Down. Now. Order, savvy?”

  Teslin stared at her. Sat, sudden and hard. She hung her head between her knees, coughed, and spat a rope of blood and slime.

  Dekklis took a slow, shallow breath. Held it. Twinges all up and down, and a deep pain in her side like a knife. She let the breath out, thin and careful.

  The half-blood shot her a narrow look, white brows crowding the bridge of that proud nose. “Your ribs,” she said. “I’ll have a look soon, Szanys.”

  “Worry about Istel.”

  “Oh. I am.”

  She didn’t like the look on Snow’s face, that tight-lipped frown. She sidled closer. “How is he?”

  “Awake.” Istel cracked an eye at her. Stretched a smile. “Fine.”

  Right. Skin washed grey, where it stretched over bone. He hadn’t complained. Wouldn’t, being Istel. “Toadshit. Snow?”

  The half-blood knotted another strip of Istel’s former sleeve around the wound.

  “Won’t die,” Snow said. “Wish I had thread and a needle. He moves, he bleeds.”

  “So he won’t move.”

  “He will.” Snow’s eyes gleamed flat and bleak and blue. “They’ll break camp tonight. Move us or kill us, something will happen.”

  “It’s snowing. It’s night.”

  “They can’t wait. Your First Spear comes up here looking for you, they’re outnumbered. All they’ve got is surprise.”

  “And arrows,” snapped Teslin.

  “Arrows will work on a camp bedded down and mostly out of armor. That’s how they got your friends here. But on marching infantry, snow coming down, arrows won’t do much. And in this riverbed, they’re rats trapped in an alley, yeah? They’re worried.”

  “Worried. How do you know this?”

  Tight smile, no teeth. “Heard them talking, yeah?”

  “Thought you didn’t understand Taliri.”

  “Said I didn’t read it. And I lied.” The half-blood thrust her hands into the snow and scrubbed until it turned pink. Pulled her hands out and grimaced. “All right, Szanys. Let me see your ribs.”

  “Bruises.”

  “Listen. We get half a chance, we’re leaving, yeah? Not going to let you slow me down.”

  “Thought we can’t run in the chains.”

  “We can’t. So they’ll come off. Istel’s already unlocked.”

  Hell and damn. Dekklis stared at her. Teslin did. Istel blinked and twisted his wrist. Blinked again. “Oh.”

  “Laughing God, stay still. Give it away now, we’re all dead.” Snow’s expression never changed. “Now. Dekklis.”

  “You’re going to help us.”

  Snow shrugged. “Not going to leave you to die.”

  “Why not?”

  “You want truth? Sure. I won’t cry if you die here. But you see this bar between the cuffs, Szanys-daughter? Makes it tough for me to get my fingers around to my own locks. I’m stuck. But I can pick you loose. And Teslin.”

  “No.” Dekklis cast her own bleak stare toward the fire. Their weapons had marched that way, with the rest of their escort. “We won’t last unarmed.”

  “In a pitched battle, no. But”—Snow flicked a glance at Teslin—“only one of them on us, yeah? We can take him.”

  “Heh,” said Teslin. The unswollen half of her mouth lumped i
nto a smile. “Like how you think, half-blood.”

  “I don’t,” said Dekklis. “I count fifteen of them by the fire. They killed more than that many of us already.”

  “They surprised your soldiers,” Snow said. “Like they surprised you. This time, we surprise them.”

  “And fight them with snowballs? No.”

  Teslin coughed. Spat. Said, fluid-thick: “Rather die in a fight, Dek. Like Barkett.”

  “Didn’t ask your opinion.”

  “I agree with Teslin,” said Istel faintly. He winced when she looked at him. “Sorry, Dek.”

  She glared at the half-blood. “Insubordination’s contagious.”

  A smile spasmed on Snow’s lips. “Yeah. Maybe. But I think we’re better off dying fast than what I think they’ll do to us.”

  Hard to argue with that. Dekklis nodded at Snow. Didn’t flinch when the half-blood slid a hand under her armor. Ground her teeth together and let breath hiss between them. Hell and damn, that hurt. Sent sparks across her vision, tunneled grey on the edges.

  Snow’s breath warmed her cheek. “Cracked.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “You’ll have to.” Snow angled herself between Dekklis and their guard and dropped her hands to the shackles. Metal flickered between her fingers. Chirurgeon. Conjuror. Motherless thief, too.

  “What stops us from leaving you to the Taliri, once we’re free?”

  Click. Thunk. Snow slid the pick out of the lock, rolled the slim steel between her fingers. “Your honor, Szanys.”

  “You’re not that stupid.”

  “You saying that’s a mistake, trusting you?”

  “I’m saying it’s a risk.”

  “I might be that desperate.”

  “Hell you are. Truth, half-blood. You’ve got a plan.”

  “Truth.” Challenge in those blue eyes. And not a bit of doubt, or fear, or any sensible, predictable emotion. “I do have a plan. But it works on my timing, yeah? You move too early, we all die.”

  “Wait for what?”

  Snow angled a glance from the corners of her eyes. Crouched there, with only the steam from her nose to say living, not statue. Snowmelt beaded on her cheeks. Dripped down.

  “Well?”

  “We need a distraction, yeah? Well. It’s almost here.”

  Teslin got it first. “Your partner’s coming.”

  Flat smile, no teeth, that looked like it hurt. “Call him that, sure.”

  Dekklis choked on a dry laugh. “One man. One man, against twenty—”

  “One man, armed. Three of you. One of me. Shadows solid as I can weave them around that fire, so we get a little darkness. Surprise on our side.” She laughed soundlessly. “Since I bet you’re too orthodox to pray, Szanys . . . hope that’s enough, yeah? Or we end up like Kenjak.”

  A man waited at the bend in the riverbed, an armored silhouette that said Illhari legion. A sentry, Veiko thought, and stopped.

  Then he noticed the faint glow limning the soldier. Noticed that Helgi and Logi, reliable sentries themselves—had not yet smelled a man standing downwind. And Veiko realized, as he noticed no breath pluming out of the man’s face, that he wasn’t looking at anyone living.

  Run was his first thought. A child’s instinct, to flee for light and the safety of walls. But there was no place he might go—no lodge, no tent, no shelter—that a ghost could not find him. And so Veiko shifted the bow on his shoulder, set his hand on the axe, tried to remember the lore. Could a living man wound a ghost? Some of the walking dead wore their own skins, could be hurt—but this one wore only the memory of flesh. Perhaps it would not notice him, or the dogs, and he could double back and try another route—

  Briel swooped low over his head, whisper-wings and the damned-soul shee-oop that Snow said was a svartjagr hunting cry. The dogs paused in midstep to look at her, muzzles pointed like fingers. Helgi whined. Logi waved his tail. Briel circled back to Veiko, braked, and caught her claws in his cloak. She settled her length across his shoulders. Chrripped as she settled.

  Unafraid. Willing him to be unafraid.

  The ghost looked and began walking toward him. Now the dogs noticed. Even Helgi clamped his tail and retreated, ears flat and fur spiked.

  Wise animals, dogs. One could not say as much for svartjagr. Small wonder Snowdenaelikk required much practice with escape and evasion. She had Briel for company.

  Skraeling, said the ghost. A young man’s voice. A young man’s uncertainty. Can you hear me?

  Veiko closed his eyes. Clamped his lips hard together. One did not speak to wandering spirits. One offered the dead no anchors on the world of the living. One did not.

  Skraeling. The voice grew no louder. But when Veiko cracked his eyelids, he saw the ghost a mere arm’s length away. Now he recognized its features, and the cold in his belly grew teeth. Skraeling, I remember who helped me.

  “Chrrip.” Briel’s hard little head butted his cheek. Smooth hide, warm as coals. Her wings flared as she stretched her neck forward. He felt, rather than heard, the warning hiss.

  The ghost stopped as if he’d struck a barrier. Looked at the svartjagr with something like fear. Looked at Veiko with something like desperation.

  Skraeling, please.

  Fool.

  “K’Hess Kenjak,” Veiko said, in his clearest Dvergiri. “I hear you.”

  Ghosts did not feel relief, surely, but this one’s face sagged into a smile. I hoped you would.

  Hoped. The dead should not hope. The dead should be dead. And this boy-man should not be dead at all.

  “We left you alive,” Veiko said carefully.

  A ripple across translucent features. The Taliri came. Another ripple. For a moment its eyes gleamed bright as Briel’s. They killed all of us.

  “All.”

  All but three troopers. And your half-blood. The ghost looked over its shoulder. Frowned. But one of them will not survive.

  Do not ask, Veiko told himself, how he knows that. Do not ask who will die. Ask useful things, like:

  “How many Taliri?”

  Ten. Fifteen.

  “There is a difference.”

  Too many, said the ghost, and Veiko did not like its smile. Too many for one man. But I can help you, skraeling.

  Fools talked to ghosts. Fools gave hospitality to half-blood Illhari outlaws. Fools cleaved the chieftain’s son’s skull, too. But to leave Snow now—that was dishonor and cowardice, and his ancestors would remember it. He would, all the rest of his life.

  Veiko worked his tongue around until he’d gathered enough spit to speak. A fool he might be, but he had listened to the noidghe’s winter-night tales.

  “For what price?”

  The ghost’s smile changed then and scrubbed away any resemblance to the boy he remembered.

  Revenge.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Snowdenaelikk examined the fluttering ache in her throat. Named it hope and stupid and tried to swallow it smooth. Dekklis was right. Hell of a risk, big as all the fucking sky, to trust highborn honor. But there was no one else to trust. Teslin would leave her to die. Istel might not, left to his own, but he’d follow his commander’s orders. Do what Dekklis told him, and hell with his own honor. Dekklis herself had two hands free now. She might lose patience. Might decide Snow would be distraction enough, left chained, while she and Teslin and Istel escaped.

  Except they wouldn’t. Their best hope, their only hope, was a man and two dogs and Briel. But if Veiko walked into this, he’d get killed.

  Her chest ached, gut to throat. She closed her eyes and sent

  wait

  clear and hard as she could. Let Briel listen, for once. Please, Laughing God.

  An uncivilized people, the Taliri, known for cruelty, for hating the Dvergiri only a little more than they hated Alviri. They raided and took things that belonged to other people, in a way that the gangs and the cartels didn’t. In a way that Veiko might understand and condemn.

  The people need takin to live, do
you see?

  Well, say the Taliri stole everyone’s takin. Say the Taliri hunted and killed what they caught. Two-legged wolves, yeah, and worse than wolves.

  And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Taliri would’ve burned Davni, murdered everyone—but they’d have looted it first.

  Unless.

  Prayers mean gods.

  Say the Taliri had offered a sacrifice. Say something had answered. Or someone. Prayers meant gods, yeah, and the scratching on that pole—fuck and damn, no conjuring she recognized, not ward or spell. But she had known the shapes, even so. Glyphs that flashed her back to hundreds of candlemarks spent in the Academy archives, reading the histories. The Purge had been about choices: Dvergiri changing their reliance on godmagic to conjuring, trusting their own wits more than the gods. When the foremothers who conducted the Purge had destroyed temples and executed the godsworn, they’d assumed that meant the gods had died, too. The Laughing God hadn’t. And clearly, neither had Tal’Shik.

  Snowdenaelikk shivered, hard.

  “What?” Teslin tried to turn her damn head, to see Snow with her one working eye. “You see something?”

  “Nothing,” she snapped. “Thinking, that’s all. Hold still.”

  There wasn’t much she could do for Teslin’s eye, or the right side of her face, or the tooth cracked to gumline. The nose, yeah, that she could fix. Straighten it, anyway, for another rush of blood and Teslin’s explosive profanity. And in that distraction, slip the pick into the lock, twist and work metal on metal, and pray

  Laughing God

  the blood didn’t make her hands slip.

  “Hsst.” Warning from Dekklis, all she had before:

  “Illhari.” Their guard, with an accent thicker than Veiko’s, yeah, slurred and impossible. Closing on them, rot him anyway. “Illhari.”