Some members of the Immaculate court must have objected to the empress’s harsh judgment, most quietly but a few loudly, but now that Ji-hyeon knew the truth of Empress Ryuki’s black heart, she had no doubt that dissenters would have been silenced in just as absolute a fashion. Which meant anyone who remained on Othean when the last living Bong finally returned would be complicit, or close enough as made no difference—even if Ji-hyeon had killed Prince Byeong-gu, there was never any doubt the rest of her family was completely innocent, and anyone who would continue to serve an empress capable of such savagery deserved exactly what Ji-hyeon would bring them.
Dark thoughts, but they went well with the setting, and kept her going even when the memories of Sullen and Keun-ju brought frustrated tears to her eyes, and when the fantasy of being reunited with both of them felt as thin as she’d worn her boots … but without the means to steal a new pair off a dead adversary who resembled a woman covered in a diamond pattern of scaly knobs. The fallen monster’s head looked like something banished from the seafloor even before Ji-hyeon hacked it apart with the black blade that howled right along with her, the rest of the creature’s pack fleeing at the sound of her sainted steel. Word must be spreading among the tribes of a lone swordswoman with an enchanted blade, an all-seeing eye, and a bound devil, but while that might have discouraged some, it clearly emboldened others. The first year Ji-hyeon only defended herself, but in the second she became a ruthless huntress, ambushing anything she could take unawares, showing no mercy to her enemies … and everything that walked or crawled or slithered or flew in this place was her enemy.
For two relentless years Ji-hyeon stayed one shaky sword thrust ahead of an anonymous death, and at the end of that second year she chopped her notch-striped walking stick in two. Not because keeping the crude calendar had become too depressing, but so she could use the two ends as a brace for the arm she broke fighting a tusked monstrosity. Under Fellwing’s ministrations the arm eventually healed but she didn’t bother marking the days anymore. Why had she bothered in the first place? She was here until she escaped or she died, end of song.
Then, traversing the buckled ruins of a once-mighty wall that ran along the tops of the fjords that formed the northern coast of the pearlescent sea, Ji-hyeon stumbled into the very sort of trap she favored most.
She was weak and shaky from climbing up to the headland, and Fellwing was sleeping in her sling on Ji-hyeon’s chest, exhausted from keeping her mistress strong and alert during the perilous ascent. Stern gusts blew in from the ocean and whistled up through sea caves in almost musical bursts. The winds kept the stone underfoot free of the slippery ash that would have made this treacherous route impassable, but they also deafened her with their near-constant trilling. She had considered moving farther inland before resuming her westward march, but beyond the sea cliffs stretched another ruined city, this wall but one edge of what must have once been a wonder to dwarf any metropolis on the Star.
To Ji-hyeon’s jaded right eye it looked like nothing so much as a maze that stretched to the far horizon—if she walked into that expanse of blasted stone and teetering ruins the black sun would be obscured by uncounted miles of rubble and wreckage. Many times in her journey she had lost sight of her quarry, sometimes for weeks at a time, and there was nothing worse than cresting a ridge and finding she had been wandering off course, the black sun in a completely different direction than she had anticipated.
Flipping up her eye patch to let her devilish left eye have a gander, she saw that the dead city teemed with gossamer activity. Pastel currents swirled up out of the streets, sentient black shadows peeling themselves off the walls and roofs to swim up into the variegated air. Nothing new here, then. For the umpteenth time Ji-hyeon wondered if this realm was truly as bleak and hopeless as it seemed or if these lands actually thrived with warmth and happiness and normal life, life that she could only catch hints of with the aid of her altered eye. What if this place that appeared to be an ancient ruined city in some alien land was in fact a bustling city on the Star, and she was but a doomed ghost who could see nothing but the shadows cast by the living world?
Yes, well, as long as she was asking herself stupid questions she’d already pondered a thousand times, what if she went ahead and carved her haunted left eye out of her skull? Dropping the patch back into place, she turned away from the vastness of the city and followed the wall that ran along the coastline. Long stretches of its ancient allure still stood strong, but where the buckled wall-walk had collapsed she climbed down to wend her way through the labyrinth of scattered masonry.
It was here that the trap was sprung. A portion of the wall had pitched over the edge of the sheer cliffs into the sea, leaving a gap of mostly open ground to cross from the lonely, freestanding arch Ji-hyeon leaned against, catching her breath, to the resumption of the ruins. The wall had pulled up and away from the city here, riding a crest of land nearly as sheer on the city side as it was on that of the sea, but the ridgeline ahead wasn’t too narrow and she hadn’t seen sign nor spoor of anything larger than a rock squid since gaining the headland. Still, she hadn’t lived this long by taking her safety for granted.
As if sensing her uncertainty her left eye itched to be let back out into the light, and she obliged it. She only let it have a quick peek, though, having learned that the longer she stared with her devilish eye the more it affected her equilibrium, her feet struggling to find purchase on illusory planes that lingered even after she put her metal patch back into place. Squinting to focus past the predictable waterfall of blushing pigments that swirled over the narrow ridge between her and the ruins on the far side, she didn’t see any of the oily black smears she was looking for. She had learned that such dark smudges oftentimes limned hostile creatures lying in ambush, their cover worthless against the acuity of Ji-hyeon’s witch-eye … but while the ruins ahead fluttered with countless hues and shades and ephemeral activity, none of the angry black blobs revealed themselves.
Ji-hyeon snapped her eye patch back in place, and once her feet felt steady enough to make the crossing she plowed ahead along the exposed ridge. The whistling wind rose near to a scream out here, away from the buffering ruins, and she scowled at the empty sky—a coast without birds seemed as unnatural as an ocean without water … which it might well be, since she hadn’t had any interest in further investigating the slushy white tide that broke on the dismal beach.
From the corner of her eye she saw a shadow dart around the wreckage of the wall ahead of her. The only shadows in this gloomy land were made of twisted flesh and fetid blood, the black sun too weak or too weird to cast actual shade. She was already most of the way across the open path, and broke into as fast a charge as she dared. A misstep here on the rocky, uneven turf would send her either tumbling off the cliffs into the sea or bouncing all the way down the sheer slope to the ruined city far below. Her breath was short and hot and painful, her legs stumbling and twisting as the wind hit hard enough to trip her up, a crude javelin in one hand and the other keeping Fellwing from bouncing too hard on her chest even as she rubbed the devil awake.
Another shape bobbed briefly into view behind the curtain of boulder-strewn rubble. This wasn’t the first time she had trusted her cursed eye to warn her of danger only to be let down, and as always the question remained if this was due to her failure to understand its bizarre visions or because the organ itself intended to deceive her into peril. A question to be revisited after she killed everything that stood in her way—there might be an army of mutants waiting beyond those first few blocks of the fallen wall, true, but if so they would immediately be on her trail and she was far too tired to lead them on a protracted chase back the way she had come. Better to press forward and push through, however many there were, until they ran screaming from her black sword. Ji-hyeon would have planned an ambush for this exact spot had their roles been reversed, but then holding a narrow path or bridge is most effective if you’re trying to bottleneck a larger force, as oppo
sed to a lone agent—as always, she had the advantage of her wits over the four armored figures who now stepped out from the cover of the stones to challenge her.
Fellwing finally woke with a frantic chirp Ji-hyeon could barely hear above the shrieking wind, the exhausted owlbat bursting out of the sling to flap around Ji-hyeon’s face. While she appreciated her devil’s warning she could see perfectly well what a bad idea this was as she crossed the last dozen meters of narrow trail to where it opened up at the base of the wall. None of these warriors had charged yet, waiting for her to come to them, and they had spread out enough to trap her among them. They must be smarter than most of their monstrous ilk, which meant they were more dangerous, and while they didn’t wear helms and their armor wasn’t as brutish as most, their blades looked every bit as keen. One of them brandished an enormous crossbow.
With Ji-hyeon’s eye streaming from the wind, their faces looked almost human, their features flatter than most of the monsters here, their open mouths not displaying tusks or fangs. Ji-hyeon focused on the most intimidating, a tall female with a glaive … a glaive she thrust into the earth at her feet, raising gauntleted palms in the air just as Ji-hyeon drew back her javelin, preparing to spit this woman through her barking mouth and then draw her swords. Whatever trick this was, Ji-hyeon wasn’t falling for it, what she had taken to be a deafening wind actually the howling of her black blade warning her to strike fast and now and kill kill kill these things, and just as she tried to hurl her javelin at its naked, confused face Ji-hyeon tripped.
One of the others had kicked her legs out from under her, Fellwing failing to protect her mistress, and then they fell upon her. There were four of them and Ji-hyeon felt so weak, but they were all old, she saw, old and weak, too, and she thrashed and kicked and howled, trying to headbutt a leather-skinned man in the teeth when he got too close, and snapping at a crone’s hand when she tried to press something over Ji-hyeon’s mouth. No, not her mouth, something wet and cold against her forehead, and the howling faded as they chanted some spell, some trick, Fellwing circling far above her attackers, again a single beacon in the empty sky above the empty sea.
“Ji-hyeon,” they were saying. “General Ji-hyeon.”
She was too surprised to speak, but she stopped fighting, her fevered brain finally acknowledging that these were real people, not more monsters, and they were addressing her. Her own name sounded alien on the lips of these four old-timers, three women and a man, the concern on their lined faces shifting to relief. To joy. The old man was weeping, the hands that had seized her and held her down now softly helping her sit up. It was a dream, and one Ji-hyeon had not let herself indulge in so long she had no idea where it even went from here …
“You know me,” she managed, looking at the happy faces of the heavily armed and armored geriatrics. They were familiar, but in the way of dreams, where all mortals are cousins and known to one another. “I … I’m sorry, I don’t …”
They looked taken aback for a moment but then exchanged nervous laughs. The oldest of them, the woman with the glaive whom Ji-hyeon had almost murdered, executed the unmistakably ostentatious bow of a Raniputri knight despite looking more like a Flintlander, and said, “Chevaleresse Sasamaso of the Crowned Eagle People, Captain of General Ji-hyeon Bong’s Bodyguards, reporting for duty.”
Ji-hyeon couldn’t speak, gawping at the grinning old knight as her weathered features synchronized with the fading image of her beloved bodyguard who had died at the First Battle of the Lark’s Tongue. No, not died … been consumed by the Gate that had opened up beneath the battlefield, along with so many others, like—
“Count Hassan, of the Cobalt Company, reporting for duty,” said the Usban man, his voice steadier than his knocking knees as he gave as deep a bow as his old back would allow.
“Duchess Din, of the Cobalt Company, reporting as well,” said the least haggard of the four, though Ji-hyeon could see that her face was just as wrinkled as the rest beneath her makeup. Looping her arm through that of the third woman, the only one Ji-hyeon didn’t recognize at all, Din said, “And may I introduce Captain Meloy Shea, late of the Fifteenth Imperial Regiment, now of the Cobalt Company.”
“Very, very late of that outfit,” the fine-haired Azgarothian woman hastened to add, giving Ji-hyeon the Cobalt salute. “Honored to meet you, General, and serve a better cause.”
“I … I don’t understand,” said Ji-hyeon, her head spinning as she looked around at her saviors. She was too shocked to feel anything but confusion. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what happened, to you, to me, I don’t—”
“The one luxury we have here is time to discuss it all, but we can do that back at camp,” said Sasamaso, easily hoisting Ji-hyeon back to her feet despite her advanced years. “And that can wait until you’re rested and fed.”
“Though you could tell us a little, while we walk?” said Shea nervously.
“No, she can’t,” said Sasamaso, smiling up at Fellwing as the devil swam laps around them here in this pocket of calm air amid the ruins, outside the raging wind. “We’ve waited this long, we can wait a little longer.”
“You’ve been waiting for me?” Ji-hyeon managed, the ground seeming to float under her feet as Din and Hassan gathered up her rotting pack, rusting javelin, and everything else she’d dropped in the tussle.
“Oh, yes—this may surprise you, General, but we’ve been waiting a very, very long time,” said the wizened chevaleresse, and together the small party limped off into the shell of a city that was ancient when the Star was young.
CHAPTER
11
Higher … higher … there.” Nemi clicked her teeth in the eternal twilight of the mobile hut she called her vardo, guiding her student with gentle insistence. “That’s it, back and forth, but not so fast, not so fast—slow and steady. Good girl.”
Purna’s fingers were aching, long as they’d been at it, but hearing Nemi call her that made her chest flutter like the witch’s cockatrice had gotten inside her lungs and was flapping all around. But, like, in a good way. Keeping her hand steady and the pressure consistent, she did as Nemi commanded, and there, rising up seemingly out of nowhere, came the first quivering reward for Purna’s exertions. She kept at it, a smile spreading across her face as the sweet moan of success filled the vardo. As with so much else, from playing gin to licking quim, once you figured out the basics of playing an instrument nature took care of the rest … so long as you kept an open mind and put in the hours.
“My, but you’re a quick study,” said Nemi, slowly letting go of Purna’s elbow now that her pupil had found the right balance and amount of friction to apply with the bow to draw music out of the singing sword. It was damned hard work, though, keeping the pommel wedged between her boots and pinching the blunt point between thumb and forefinger of her off hand as she pressed down, putting just enough of an S-shaped curve in the blade that when she dragged the bow across its dull side the sword serenaded her. It sang in much the same way that rutting cats could be said to sing, a warbling wailing yowl of a song, but Purna knew from experience that strange music could prove beautiful, if you gave it a chance to win you over. “You said you played other instruments?”
“Xylobones and drums, mostly,” said Purna. “Got pretty good at beatboxing, too, once I met up with those nobles I told you about, Diggelby’s chums, but that’s not really—balls!”
Quick as she’d found the sweet spot she lost it again, the music dying and her left hand too tired to keep the blade curved any longer. Slowly raising her arm so the sword wouldn’t snap her in the thigh like before, she handed the bow back to Nemi. “Next time I’ll have it for sure.”
“I am already quite impressed,” said the witch, slipping the bow into the smaller opening of her heavy wooden scabbard, and then sheathing the singing sword when Purna passed it over. “I could never keep it up that long when I was first learning, though my hands have grown strong from the years of playing. Yours must be sore, no?”
“Oh, it takes more than a little finger work to get these mitts miffed,” said Purna, though in point of fact it felt like her digits were going to fall off and her wrists weren’t far behind. If she was going to get her hands cramped up during alone time with the fit witch there were other instruments Purna would prefer to play, but you couldn’t be a Maroto and rush these things. Better to let them fall naturally into place, lest you fall naturally onto your face. Of course, nothing ventured nothing gained, and if you couldn’t flirt with a skirt than you probably weren’t ever going to get where you wanted anyway. “My uncle always said you have to keep your hands busy or they’ll get you into trouble, but in my experience trouble’s the very thing that’s kept these ten fingers of mine the busiest.”
“I was recently accused of speaking in riddles; I wonder what my plainspoken traveling companion would have made of you, Purna Antimgran,” said Nemi, brushing her mousy hair out of her bespectacled face. Her many rings and piercings glittered in the yellow light of the lantern that illuminated the narrow room, with its bench-bed, built-in bookshelves, and the hooded black-and-white cockatrice nested in its alcove. Although the music lesson had ended she remained seated next to her pupil on the bolster, and now that Purna wasn’t focused so intently on playing she noticed that Nemi’s thigh was flush with her own, only a witch’s lacy dress and a barbarian’s padded leather legging separating their skin.
“Which companion had problems parsing your words, the monk or the mook?” asked Purna. “No, let me guess—it was Sullen’s mum, wasn’t it? I tried talking to her, told her any sister of Maroto’s was a sister of mine, but that didn’t play so well.”
“She would not talk to you?”
“Oh, she said plenty at first, in Flintlander. But when I made it clear I understood at least some of the spleen she was spitting she clammed right up.”
A War in Crimson Embers Page 12
