Enemy (On the Bones of Gods Book 1)

by K. Eason

  Istel had threatened to break her fingers once, but Tsabrak knew better than Istel what that meant to a conjuror, who needed hands to make gestures, to hold power just so. And Tsabrak also knew her left hand was her strong one, not the right. She should be thankful he hadn’t broken more than the littlest finger, that he hadn’t pulled all five out of their sockets or cut off whole joints.

  Thankful, yeah. Sure. Thanks, Laughing God. You want me to fail, is that it?

  There was a thought, cold splash through the shake and nausea. If she failed here, the God could come collect from Veiko. And maybe that’s what he wanted all along. Fuck and damn, hands were shaking, both of them. It was just a little fucking bone, nothing lethal. Nothing permanent. There were ways to kill Ehkla that weren’t conjuring.

  From the sweet-stink and tallow-bright room, right on cue: “Snowdenaelikk,” soft and slurred and lazy. “Snowdenaelikk, come here.”

  Motherless toadfucker was probably flat on a couch, nibbling cheese, smirking fit to split her pretty face. Ehkla should be worried about letting Snow into her presence without guards and steel shackles and a whole handful of broken bones. So ask why she wasn’t, and Laughing God, hate the answer.

  Because she thinks I can’t hurt her, with or without broken fingers. Because she’s Tal’Shik’s godsworn. Because I’m going to die in there, soon as she gets what she wants out of me.

  Whatever that something was, Snow meant to sell it dearly.

  She pulled herself straight and stalked the last handful of steps to the corner.

  And stopped.

  She had not believed, until then, that Ehkla would really meet her alone. Expected a roomful of Taliri, and chains, and a spike sunk into a hole in the floorboard. Expected rough hands at the least, and maybe a first round of gang rape while Ehkla watched and smiled.

  But there was only a single chair near the smoky hearth, and a single shape sitting in it, robed and hooded in Taliri browns and greys. Ehkla’s left hand claw-clenched at her throat, holding the hood up. Her right hand lay across her lap like a dead bug, Tal’Shik’s sigil gleaming blood-dark on the palm. A rope of braided hair coiled out of the hood’s cavern-dark. It looked, Snow thought, like a rat had crawled in there and died.

  “Snowdenaelikk,” said Ehkla. “Come here.” And then, after a moment, “Please.”

  “All right,” Snow said, as if she had any choice. One step. Another. The rot was much stronger now. Choking. Gagging, fuck and damn, there weren’t enough candles in Cardik to mask that stench. Snow coughed. Flinched as her eyes stung and watered.

  “What’s dead? You hiding another sacrifice in here?”

  Ehkla cackled, sounding like dice and dust. Her left hand crept sideways and plucked at the edge of the hood. The wool slipped once, twice, before she scraped it back. “Nothing dead. Not yet.”

  Ehkla’s face still had that crystal-carved beauty as the hood puddled down around her shoulders. But one of her eyes was cloudy blue now, fogged and blind. Sweat gleamed on her forehead, beaded the top of her lip. Pain and fever shivered through her like wind through branches. She rocked sideways on the chair, so that its legs thumped and scraped. Writhed and squirmed and worked the cloak off one shoulder without moving her right arm at all.

  Snow had seen wound rot, yeah, all stages. A chirurgeon either got used to blood and bone on the wrong side of skin, got used to pus and maggots, or she found different work. But she’d never seen a wound this far gone on a body still upright and lucid. Pus green as grass, the jagged ends of a collarbone jutting up like snow-covered peaks out of muscle as much grey as pink.

  Snow remembered Veiko hunched on the hearthstones, firelight casting him orange as he honed his axe smooth.

  I hit her shoulder. She wore no armor. The blade drove in true, through bone.

  The eye, though—that had been his wound to Tal’Shik, an arrow in the spirit world. A wound that had transferred to Tal’Shik’s godsworn, apparently.

  “You’re a mess,” she said. “What’s wrong? Tal’Shik can’t fix you?”

  “She can.”

  “Then why won’t she? You’re her favorite, yeah? Or have you pissed her off?”

  Blind strike, a javelin thrown in the dark. Saw it stick, in Ehkla’s sudden stiffness. The single yellow eye drooped and dipped away. Circled the floor, intent on nothing. “You are not here to ask questions.”

  “Then what am I here for? Bait? You think Veiko’s coming to save my ass, you’re wrong. Told Tsabrak that. And even if he could lift whatever curse is on you, he won’t. Promise you that on my mother’s—”

  “No.” Ehkla peered out of her remaining eye. Narrow, golden, glittering with fever or fury or both. “Haven’t you guessed, Snowdenaelikk? I want you to kill me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The half-blood Aneki was waiting for them in the hallway, crossed arms and one hip hitched against the wall. She straightened as Dekklis came through the door. Skipped a glance past Dekklis’s shoulder, once and twice.

  Dekklis sighed. “We didn’t touch Veiko, yeah? He’s fine.”

  Aneki’s gaze settled, hard and clear. “Of course he is. You’re no danger to him.”

  “Your bondies thought otherwise.”

  “You’re highborn,” Aneki said, and shrugged. “And legion. What else should they think?”

  A woman could get tired of being the enemy in her own city. Dekklis shouldered past Aneki with a little more force than she needed. Choke on the woman’s perfume, that was one thing, but that skirt had folds enough to hide a dozen knives. “Sorry. Have some place to be, savvy?”

  “Oh, savvy.” Aneki kept pace with her. “But you’ll want better weapons than you have, if you’re going into the Warren.”

  Dekklis snapped a look, closed her mouth. Through teeth: “And I suppose you happen to keep some on hand.”

  “And armor.”

  “And armor. Well. That’s lucky.”

  “Not luck.” Aneki’s lips creased. “Might not be the best fit, but it’s something between you and angry people.”

  Aneki proved correct: the armor wasn’t a good fit. Wasn’t scout’s armor, either: a heavier set, meant for the Sixth’s infantry and a man’s frame, which meant gaps at the waist and neck, and bands of black steel around her chest, across her shoulders, weight a scout didn’t carry. Teslin wouldn’t have noticed; then again, Teslin wouldn’t have gotten the hooks together across chest and back, wouldn’t have gotten the straps buckled at all. But the sword belt fit fine over Dek’s shoulder, and the blade was pure legion-standard, and she knew how to run with both.

  The gear bore the tribune’s stamp, destined for the legion, and here it was, in a brothel in the Street of Silk Curtains. So yes, this was part of the contraband moving in Cardik, part of the God’s smuggling. Bet she and Istel ran into people wearing part of the same shipment before sunset, on the wrong side of that riot.

  If they got there in time. That meant running faster. Never thought she’d thank Rurik for the drills, for his insistence on running every-damn-where.

  “Snow,” she said to Istel, who ran beside her. “Thinks of everything, doesn’t she? Storing gear for us with Aneki. So thoughtful.”

  “She knew this was coming, Dek. She told us as much. You surprised she thought of it, or surprised that she’d rather we live through a street fight?”

  Istel had fared better with his gear, Istel being closer to the shape the smith had intended during forging. He jogged beside her, breathing easily, with no need to keep tugging the armor square over his hips. Sleet slashed down, muffling footfalls and the creak of new leather and metal still sharp on the edges and smearing the remnants of the day into an early twilight. The lanterns flickered uncertainly.

  It would be full dark by the time they got up near the walls, except for whatever light the Bridge fire gave them. Assuming it managed to keep burning through the storm. Assuming they got across Market at all, which they wouldn’t if the praefecta’s troops beat them there.


  “Faster,” she snapped. And hell with that lingering twinge in her ribs, which did not like cold or wet or extra armor.

  “Feel like a green again,” Istel said cheerfully. “You ever infantry, Dek?”

  “First Legion, Second Cohort,” clipped short. The rain stung like gravel where it hit her face. “Where is that animal?”

  “Not like we need her yet. We know where the Bridge is.” Reasonable Istel, now that he’d gotten his way. Off on a rescue now, following the half-blood’s tame svartjagr and her less-than-tame partner’s directions.

  Be lucky if they didn’t run straight into ambush, up in the Warren’s dark. Be lucky if Briel didn’t lead them right into one—

  Shee-oop, diving out of rain, skimming close over her head. Dekklis saw herself, for a dizzy moment, through Briel’s eyes. Saw, in the next moment, the wet gleam off Illhari steel, helmets bobbing four abreast through a street rinsed in lantern light from glass windows. Signs jutted out of the wall, most of them paint and pictures, all of them crisp-edged and unchipped. A tankard, a loaf of bread, a weaver’s wheel and spindle. The perspective tightened, vision sharper than Dekklis’s own. Red-and-black livery under the armor, and the Sixth’s crest on the helmets.

  And then she was alone in her own head, her vision blurred by rain and dark. She staggered and picked up her stride again and pretended she didn’t need Istel’s hand on her elbow for balance. Pretended her heart wasn’t banging panic off breastbone and throat. Veiko had warned her, hadn’t he, about Briel’s sendings.

  Snowdenaelikk used to lose her sight afterward.

  Used to. And now?

  Now she does not. But she says that it is still unpleasant.

  It was, hell and damn. A blinding headache, so that Dekklis felt every cobble on the street vibrate up her spine.

  “The Sixth,” she gasped. “Just passed the main square.”

  “Shit.” Istel’s grin wasn’t cheerful now. More like a dog’s bare-toothed warning. “It’ll be a near thing if we beat them.”

  In the end it was too close and just on the wrong side of victory. Dekklis had a moment’s elation, skidding out onto Market Street from the alley and seeing rain-slick empty between them and the Bridge. And in the next heartbeat,

  “Hoy! You there,” from upslope and behind. “Stop! Identify yourselves!”

  Dekklis spun partway. Jogged sideways, with the Bridge’s faint pinkish-orange glow like a sunset on the limits of her vision. There was a line of legion up the street, coming this way.

  “Keep going,” she told Istel, and louder, “First Scout Szanys Dekklis, Second Legion, Sixth Cohort, on orders!”

  “I said stop!” A woman’s voice, that woman: front and center and pulling away from the line. Rough-cut features, not highborn, a face Dekklis knew. Dekklis slowed to a trot, squared her back to the Bridge. Listened to Istel’s splash and clank, and the dull thud as he stepped onto wood. Put her arms out, fingers spread and empty, and stopped.

  “Haantu, hoy, it’s me.”

  Second Spear R’Haina Haantu raised her fist and kept coming. Stopped beside Dekklis as the ranks broke and streamed around them. Her breath steamed through her teeth like jenja smoke.

  “What you doing down here, Dek? And the fuck is your uniform? That infantry kit you’ve got?”

  “Told you. Orders. This armor’s part of it.”

  “That’s Istel with you, then?”

  “That’s right.”

  Haantu grimaced. “Sorry. Got my own orders. No one crosses. Call him back.”

  “Can’t do that.”

  “Huh.” Haantu grabbed a passing legionnaire. “Jari. Get that man on the bridge, yeah? One of ours. Be gentle.”

  “Haantu, listen, First Spear K’Hess is aware of our mission.”

  “Didn’t mention it to me.” Haantu looked past her. Bellowed: “Take your positions.—Sorry, Dek. I’ll send a runner. Your story checks, you’re on your way.”

  Hell and damn. Haantu had a reputation for sticking at details. Made her a good commander, exactly the right woman to hold the Market Bridge against whatever came out of the Warren. Exactly the wrong woman to argue with, too.

  So Dekklis didn’t. She turned to check Istel’s progress. He was a third of the way across now, dodging hard around tipped carts and panicked chickens, Jari coming up fast in his wake. Most of the Bridge was deserted. At least one kiosk had burned utterly, gone to black sticks and smoke, the ones on either side of it sputtering. A clot of confusion at the far side, where a mob pressed up against—what, Dekklis couldn’t see. She stretched onto her toes. A barricade, looked like, debris and a couple of handcarts piled together and blocking the Warren side of the Bridge. Istel hit the back fringe of the crowd and disappeared, one more dark Dvergir head among dozens. Jari was easier to spot, in the legion helmet, in the bright red and black. And then Dekklis saw the Alviri: pale heads studding the top of the barricade and more on the ground on this side of it. Foremothers defend, there was a whole wedge of them already on the Bridge, coming over the barricade and forcing their way upstream through the crowd. Legion weapons in their hands, mostly swords, a few spears.

  Revolution. Blood and fire. Damn you, Snow.

  “The fuck?” Haantu shouldered past Dekklis, hand on her sword. “What are they doing over there? Are they armed? Eiri, Jako, get the crossbows up here—”

  Dekklis ran. Fast, driving steps as Haantu shouted something at her, brushing past startled shoulders just setting a line across the Bridge. And then it was a long stretch of empty ahead, wood booming hollow under her boots

  too loud

  and a burning in her throat, exertion and smoke together. Grinning as she ran, lips peeled back and rain pelting cold on her teeth. She dragged her sword out of its sheath. Shouted Istel’s name as Briel shrieked overhead.

  And impact as she hit a crumbling wall of civilians. She battered through them, shoulder first, elbows scything. Like swimming a river in snowmelt, debris and currents and best she could do to hold on to the sword and avoid cutting anyone. Half chant, half shout:

  “Get out of my way, clear, clear!”

  Until she met an Alvir, who mirrored her grin and raised his right arm. She punched, pommel first into his face, slashed down and across and shoved him sideways.

  She knew the feel of metal parting flesh, knew a mortal wound from the scaling shriek that followed. Knew that it would draw others like wolves. Chop and cut, don’t stop. She kept an eyeline on Jari, cornered and half-mooned inside a ragged perimeter, howling like one of Veiko’s angry dead.

  A bolt whistled past Dekklis. Thumped home into someone.

  Legion’s firing into the crowd. Here’s your riot, Snow.

  A scream, then another, then dozens, swelling to some fresh panic. The crowd reversed its surge, carrying her back across the Bridge, away from the Warren and Snow and Ehkla.

  And behind her: “The Sixth! The Sixth!” growing closer as the legion charged.

  So much for orders, then, or Haantu had lost control of her troops. Dekklis drove her heels down, bent knees and braced and there, carved her own path.

  She caught an elbow in the side of her head, dull thump that spread white and hot and blinding. She stabbed that way, pure reflex. Felt the sword sink into flesh and stick there. Held on, twist and pull—

  And staggered free, off balance, one eye blurred and streaming. Water, blood, tears. Sword in her hand, rain stripping it back to clean steel. She spun.

  Eyeblink: the dull gleam of a steel bolt. The realization that it was going to hit her. And then falling, twisting, as her chest exploded.

  A hand seized her arm. Wrenched as her vision sparked and flickered. Kept her upright, more or less, dragged her into the lee of an upended handcart and pulled her down again.

  Don’t be in such a damn hurry, Dek, from a distance. Dying, wasn’t she. Must be, to think she saw Teslin hovering over her. Teslin, who had died in front of her, cut down by Taliri in a winter forest. Fresh blood on filt
hy snow. That was Teslin, not this

  angry dead

  woman made of mist, whose flesh was no barrier to the slashing rain. Hell and damn, that was Barkett with her, no arrows bristling out of him, both eyes whole and wide and worried. She could see the handcart’s outline past—no, through—his shoulders and torso.

  Dekklis hid in the black behind her eyelids and wondered how long it would take her to finish dying.

  “Dek. You okay?” That was Istel, who seemed solid enough. Whose hands were warm on her cheek.

  She put her hand on her chest. Expected a hole, expected blood, and found neither. She stared at her fingers, wet only with rain. Fog drifted across her vision, company to the chill settling into her bones. She shivered.

  “Yeah. Somehow.”

  Istel probed along the seams of the armor. He was, she realized, no longer wearing his own. Down to plain wet wool and leather, his hair plastered in strings to his face.

  “Bolt glanced off,” Istel said. “You were lucky. Sixth’s on the Bridge, savvy that? All of them, coming across.” He touched her cheek carefully, winced at the face she made. “It’s starting.”

  Riot. Revolution. Snow’s blood and fire.

  Dekklis pushed herself a little more upright. Craned her neck and peered around the cart. There was a body on the Bridge an arm’s length away, young Dvergir sprawled on her belly. The rain had rinsed the surrounding wood to a thin pink froth.

  Dekklis stared at the woman’s dead eyes. “You see what happened to Jari?”

  “Down,” said Istel. “They swarmed him.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe he’s just hurt—”

  He’s dead, Dek. Teslin squatted beside Istel, arms on her knees. Fog swirled around her ankles. The handcart’s wheel spun through her left shoulder, pushed by the wind and the rain. Her armor rippled like a sheet where the spokes passed through.

  A soldier didn’t survive if she panicked easily. A soldier took what happened, and adapted to it, and kept going. So there was no point at all insisting that Teslin could not be there, no, when it was obvious that she was. And just as obvious, “You’re dead, Teslin.”