Panting, she looked to the fight, which was somehow still ongoing. A slash of the seething blade and the ‘bloods near her jumped back, giving her a momentary glimpse of the abomination: fair hair slicked down by red and black, two daggers lodged in his side but still fighting as if he did not feel them. He had claimed a sword from one of the shadowbloods and flailed it awkwardly, left-handed—the arm she had shot. In his other, the accursed red dagger darted like a sentient needle, keeping his attackers at bay and cutting apart their seeking blades like paper. Metal shards littered the ground along with smears of black blood. In the darkness, Morgwi’s children would not stay hurt for long, but they bled like every other mortal.
Lark snatched up her crossbow and drew another bolt. The abomination’s blade made him a good target; if she was lucky, she could end the fight before he managed to strike someone in the heart or head. The shadow could not mend everything. Already black specks swarmed the evil blade’s blazing length like an inverse constellation, drawn into it drop by drop.
She took aim, ignoring the twinge from her calf and the increasingly frantic nature of her comrades’ attacks. Within the circle of shadows, the abomination danced madly, the captured sword a blur, the red blade drawing zigzags of light as it chased flesh. His teeth were bared, his mouth stained black as if he had bitten someone. Black trails wound down his chin and throat. When he whirled around to strike at those near her, she saw the whites of his eyes and the writhing, wormlike threads at work beneath his tattered clothes, repairing the damage.
Her shot flew straight for his face. At the last moment, the red blade struck it away.
Cursing, she loaded another and heard the team leader shout, “Bring him through!” She smirked. If they could get him into the eiyenbridge, the eiyets would rip him to shreds.
Beside her, the dark wall opened and a dry breeze invaded the hall. The hiss and roil of a million ravenous eiyets made the fine hairs on her body stand up straight.
Ahead, the fight degenerated into a grappling brawl. The stolen sword clattered free; in the press, a man howled horribly as if having his guts torn out. The ‘bloods were packed too tight now for Lark to see her target, and so she shied away from the emptiness of the wall. The gust of air that emanated from it was cold and awful, like from a long-sealed tomb.
This was the breath of the Hungry Dark, wafting up from a place beyond Oretcht’ke, beyond the thin veil of the world itself. A place no shadow-dweller—not even their god Kherus Morgwi—dared to breach for too long.
Through the forest of black legs, she saw the abomination dig in his heels, saw him bow down and jam the blade into the floor, gripping it fiercely. The ‘bloods tried to wrestle him toward the Dark mouth but he would not budge.
And then, beyond them, she saw the light coming up the stairs.
Her heart leapt into her throat. Mage! she tried to cry, but it would not come out. The shadowbloods were too involved to see, and the breath of the Dark was upon them all—the exhale finished, the inhale now begun. It stirred her underskirt and tugged at her sleeve like a child’s hand, gentle at first. Smaller shards of broken swords slid toward its gape.
“Mage!” she cried again, and this time her voice worked. The struggling ball broke apart, shadowbloods leaping away from the crouched abomination to stare toward the light. A robed figure came around the corner and the closest shadowblood lunged, only to rebound heavily off a bright orange ward.
Three wisps of light hovered over the mage’s head like a bobbing crown. He reached up to pluck one from the air.
“Retreat,” the team leader snapped. Immediately the ‘bloods leapt for the shadows, but not the eiyenbridge; in the new light, the flicker of sword-shards flying down its black-pebbled gullet was bright and clear. Instead they slipped past the mage or dropped through each others’ shadows, vanishing so quickly that in a heartbeat Lark’s allies were down to a handful. As the mage drew back the wisp as if to fling, one of the ‘bloods grabbed Lark’s wrist and yanked her toward a shadowed wall.
Light burst upon them, soundless and searing. The hiss and rustle and the inhalation of the Dark vanished utterly. Lark hit solid wall, shoulder-first, blind.
It took her a moment to realize that the hand gripping her wrist was no longer attached to a body.
A scream welled up in her throat, but before it could get free, someone shoved her to the wall and slammed her crossbow-hand into the stone. Cold fingers pried the weapon from her grip and smashed it beside her head, wood-splinters spattering across her cheek and shoulders. She gasped and nearly choked on her captor’s reek—ichor and poison, like swamp-murk under a spoiling sun.
“You,” the Hunter breathed into her ear, his voice thick with blood and the dry, papery slither of the things that lived inside him. “You are mine now.”
With that, he took her by the neck and yanked her along, stumbling, whimpering, the dead hand sliding off her wrist like a gruesome bracelet, down stairs and through doorways until she was slammed into a chair and a boot planted between her spread knees.
She clutched the edges of the chair, every muscle shivering, trying to breathe in tiny sips lest she retch at the stink of him. He hung close, not touching her but near enough to feel his heat in the cool of the room. Slowly vision began to return, and she blinked rapidly and focused on his knee, not daring to look up at his face.
Torn breeches. Torn skin stained with red and stitching slowly together of its own fibrous accord.
Her stomach lurched, and she bit her lip hard. He had not bothered to bind her yet, and she had a short knife up her right sleeve. Perhaps—
Cold fingertips touched her forehead and she fought another scream. They slid along her braids, then knotted among them and yanked her head back, forcing her to look up. Close, too close, his once-fair face stared down at her, and she realized in horror that the black blood around his mouth and down his throat was not from biting. It bubbled from the corners of his lips as he breathed, and with it came the stench.
“What are you?” she whispered despite herself.
He smiled faintly, the motion moving only one side of his mouth. “I am my master’s servant,” he said in his thickened voice. “You won’t need to worry about me for much longer.”
Before she could respond, he raised his other hand, and she cringed back automatically from the seething blade. Close-up, the black metal looked rough, the burning runes heavy and chiseled-in, but the brutal nature of its craftsmanship was nothing compared to its palpable aura of bloodlust. Like the breath of the Dark, it was a ravenous thing; the abomination’s arm strained to hold it in check.
“Do you know what this is?” he said, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. “An akarriden blade. Not forged or shaped or wrought—oh no--but trained. In Akarridi, in pain’s arena, breathing the bone-dust of generations of gladiators, he was taught to serve a singular purpose. Just one of the many: the men and women honed as weapons of spite, of fury, of never-ending need.
“And then he was sacrificed. Bone and muscle and flesh all compacted into this form, in service to our eternal lord.
“His name is Serindas. Give him your greetings.”
He set the flat of the blade to her cheek. The runes flared, their heat like fingers on her skin, and the world warped into a wash of red.
No room, no chair, no abomination. In the veined emptiness, a hulking figure held her in a monstrous embrace, its heavy fingers gloved in her struggling arteries and its blind, half-formed face so close that she tasted the blood on its breath, felt the slick silken length of its tongue lave across her trembling lips. It had a mouth like a horizon, edge to edge along the meaty nub of its head, and when the jaws parted, teeth gleamed back into the darkness of its throat like endless rows of broken glass. A bubbling chuckle rose from the depths, a glottal lover’s whisper, and her innards contracted in stark terror. Every fiber of her being pulsed with heat; she felt squeezed like inside a muscle, and when it clenched its heavy hand, her heart stutte
red—
Then the world slapped in again, the presence gone. Gasping, skin buzzing and bathed in sweat, she stared up at the abomination as he ran his tongue idly along the flat of the burning blade. The runes reflected in his eyes, dancing like little flames. Lark shifted in the chair and was ashamed to realize that her leggings were damp.
“Now, I don’t have much patience,” said the abomination, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So I would like you to tell me a few things before I give you to Serindas for eternity. Starting with:
“Where is Cob?”
*****
Lieutenant Sarovy rose as the door to the makeshift interrogation room swung wide. Though Voorkei had tried to convey just how bad Trevere looked, it still shocked him. By any measure of appearance, the man should be dead.
“He’s left the city,” Trevere said, blackness foaming at the corner of his mouth. He held up what looked like a small white needle; in his other hand was the woman’s bolt-case. “She has a goblin trailing him, and a tooth from it. We can use her.”
“A tooth,” Sarovy echoed, then shook his head. He gestured to a pair of soldiers and they preceded him into the room; through the open door he just glimpsed the woman, her head bowed, shoulders shaking. “You consider this reliable?”
“We’ll see. Where’s Voorkei?”
“Upstairs. Are you…well, Trevere?”
“Fine.”
As the Hunter brushed past him, the reek hit, and Sarovy was hard-pressed not to gag. He raised his hand to his mouth and watched the man move to the stairs with the truncated, hitching strides of someone in serious pain. The way he held his left arm tight to his body and the care he took as he mounted the steps…
“You should see the medic, Hunter,” he called, but Trevere disappeared down the hall without a backward glance.
With a sigh, Sarovy moved to the doorway to look in on their prisoner. She was unbound, several of her braids loosened to fall kinkily about her shoulders. On the small card-table nearby lay two small knives and a length of wire with leather grips—a garrote.
She did not look up at his approach, and he regarded the rows of her braids thoughtfully.
What would the General have us do now? Hold her for ransom to reduce the blood-price? Release her to show that we do not intend further conflict?
Both options tasted bitter. She was an attempted assassin and should pay for that crime. Sarovy did not consider himself a bloodthirsty man--he did not seek out conflict and kept his soldiers on a short leash--but this soft-handedness with the Shadow Cult made him reevaluate his respect for the General. Perhaps this deal had been necessary but it was by no means right.
“How much are you worth to them, woman?” he said, more an audible thought than a real question. Trevere evidently had some plan for her.
Her shoulders twitched, and her head rose just enough for him to see her dark eyes. Not the black of those shadow bastards; probably why she had not escaped. But she did not answer, only stared at him as if fixing his face in her memory.
He was about to ask again when she said, “You have no idea what he is.”
Sarovy quirked a brow, his interest sparked. He glanced to the two soldiers standing guard, then jerked his head toward the door. They gave him uneasy looks. “Go,” he said, and they stepped out, closing him inside.
For a moment Sarovy just looked around the room, considering. It was a plain bunkroom, full of beds and chairs and footlockers. Despite the many places where shadows could hide, there were none; the mage-light that hovered behind the prisoner insinuated its radiance everywhere, without regard for obstructions.
Pulling a chair over, Sarovy spun it around and planted his foot on the seat. A slight barricade in case she was planning a trick. “Explain.”
“Oh, should I tell you what he just told me about his dagger?” she said harshly. Her face was streaked with drying tears. “You Imperial soldiers have no idea what lurks among you.”
Sarovy frowned. He had hoped this would be about the fugitive, but information about Hunter Trevere could be useful. “Woman…”
“My name’s Lark,” she cut in. “Don’t call me ‘woman’.”
Sarovy sighed. He had no interest in sparring with her. He removed his foot from the chair and turned toward the door.
“Wait!”
He paused.
“What’ll you give me if I tell you?”
“Nothing.”
“But you’ve seen him. He’s not human! That means nothing to you?”
“No.”
He heard her chair shift and looked back sharply, hand falling to the hilt of his sword. She had not moved much, only drawn her legs to a position that happened to expose a good deal of thigh. And legging. Bland-faced, he tapped his fingers on the sword’s pommel. She was not exactly dressed for seduction.
“How about my life?” she said. “Can I have my life?”
“I am not in a position to promise you that.”
She gave him a disgruntled look. “At least you’re honest. Fine. So you must know about Imperial abominations, right?”
His eyes narrowed. When he did not answer, Lark said, “Right?”
“Go on.”
“Like your friend there. Crazyface. Two kinds of blood, little maggots inside him that fix him up, and that stink—didn’t you notice it? That’s because he’s dead inside. That’s what the Empire does. They kill you and pack you full of maggots and send you back out to do their dirty work.”
Ridiculous, Sarovy thought. He knew about abominations. They were the things that crawled in the Dark, the things that the Shadow Cult and its ilk let loose upon the world when they opened their wretched pathways. They had nothing to do with the Phoenix Empire and certainly nothing to do with Trevere—a Daecian who could stand in the Emperor’s light.
No, Trevere was one of the blessed.
“And then there’s the hounds,” she continued. “You know why they call them ‘hounds’ and not ‘dogs’? Because they’re not dogs! They’re monsters your people shaped to look like dogs, except they don’t, really, not when you look at them closely. They’ve got no fur, and they’ve got faces—people faces—“
He started to scowl, annoyed by her prevarication, but suddenly he saw them as if in memory. Pacing closer on paws that were not paws but hands, curled so that their chitin-plated knuckles held the weight, their long black claws tucked back against their inner wrists. Their blunt, armored brows, their teeth, their ears twisted to points, and the eyes, the despairing human eyes--
Then the fog rolled in. The earth pitched under his feet and he caught the edge of a bunk for balance, shuddering as he felt the image erase itself from his mind. Hound, hound, hound, he repeated silently, trying to hold onto the memory, but it brought nothing.
Hound.
Nothing. A meaningless word.
He shook his head briskly, frowned, and let go of the bunk. It was foolish to show weakness in front of a prisoner. Obviously he had not caught enough sleep, had not eaten properly. Irritated with himself, he cast her a brief glance and disregarded her look of bafflement.
“You will be fed, and if you remain compliant you will not be harmed,” he said as he pulled open the door. She made a sound of confusion but he did not look back, only waved his men in to stand guard.
Up the stairs, to the conference room. The floor outside it was dribbled with black, as if someone had flicked a paintbrush. That swampy stink hung thick in the air. Inside, he found Voorkei and Trevere leaning over a scrying bowl, their expressions intent, and he switched to breathing through his mouth as he approached them.
“What do you have?” he asked. The ogrekin mage looked up and beckoned with a big hand.
“The govlin’s eyes,” he grunted, pointing into the bowl. Sarovy peered at the glassy surface and saw pebbles, dirt, rutted road, all passing by swiftly at the top like an earthen sky. Then the perspective shifted slightly and at the bottom were wooden slats, juddering with unheard motio
n, and long skinny black fingers digging into them.
“It’s riding under a wagon,” Trevere said. “We’ve traced it north, halfway to Savinnor already. Impossible to say if our quarry is actually there but Voorkei tells me there’s magic above the goblin—strong magic. Warding magic. I think we can bet he’s there.”
The fingers held Sarovy’s attention. For a moment that word drifted back, like a whisper at the base of his skull: hound. Then he shook it off and yanked his gaze away.
“We’ll need to ride swiftly then,” he said. “I’ll assemble the men. Trevere, you should see the medic or at least wash up.”
“I’ll wash,” said the Hunter sourly. “I don’t need a medic.”
“Voorkei, you—“
“I have to fhrefare for N-- Niirutin,” said the mage awkwardly, gesturing toward a circle of chalk runes on the floor. “Hyou need heads vashed, hyes?”
“The mentalist from Miirut,” Trevere translated as he headed out the door.
Sarovy grimaced. A mindwash would take all day, between the time spent rooting out unapproved memories and the time necessary to recover. He could not put his men on their horses in that state.
But he could not lawfully refuse the mindwash.
“Do as you must,” he told Voorkei grimly, and turned. And almost slammed into Trevere, who had slunk back and was reaching around him toward the scrying bowl.
“Watch it,” the Hunter snapped, then started for the door again, holding the two orange ribbons that had been laid out beside the bowl. Puzzled and more than a little annoyed, Sarovy followed him.
“Why do you refuse to see the medic?” he asked as they headed down the hall.
The Hunter knotted one ribbon around his right wrist awkwardly, using his right hand and his teeth. Pale runes glimmering on it as it cinched closed. He still held his left arm tight against his side, and Sarovy noticed through the blood and tunic-shreds that the flesh of his left shoulder was inflamed, the whole joint swollen and red.
The Light of Kerrindryr (The War of Memory Cycle Book 1) Page 26
