Something thudded hollowly up ahead. Then came a grunt, and a real door swung wide on creaking hinges, letting in dim greenish light. Lark’s silhouette plunged through and Dasira followed, dragging Fiora after her, then looked back to see Arik duck low and sideways to avoid braining himself or Cob on the frame.
Eiyets still rode on Cob’s back by the dozens. As Arik crossed the threshold, Dasira saw their tiny hands clench on his hair and clothes. The span of the doorway was filled with them, their myriad eyes gleaming in the reflected light, and as Arik tried to pull him free, Dasira saw blood bloom on his skin as those tiny fingers dug in harder. Their hisses surged in volume, a chilling sound from a million tiny throats.
A handful of coins flew past her then, scattering against the wall of eiyets. Wherever they hit, the creatures let go and started fighting each other, but there were too many.
Releasing the others’ hands, Dasira tore open her coin-pouch and flung its contents at the doorway, silver and brass and bronze glinting briefly before being swallowed by the shadows. A chorus of chatters and tiny shrieks, then the sound of tearing cloth, and Arik stumbled away with Cob solidly in his arms. Spots of blood covered the unconscious boy’s back, and most of his tunic was gone, but at least he was in one piece.
Fiora lunged forward and slammed the door.
“Morgwi’s balls, they really want him,” said Lark shakily in the sudden silence.
Dasira sank to the floor, heart thundering in her ears. She felt woozy and sick and suddenly, unaccountably elated. Glancing around, she realized that they were in the tight confines of some kind of storage basement, with crates and barrels stacked up to the low ceiling and spheres of luminous mossy water inset in the walls. A stepstool on the far side led to a trapdoor above.
Lark scurried there as Arik slowly lowered Cob to the floor. Torn between the two, Dasira hesitated for a moment then followed Lark; there was nothing she could do for Cob.
The Shadow girl mounted the stepstool, pulled bolts back from the door and pushed it open, then flinched back as it let in a gust of chill air. “Not in town, I guess,” she said as she hefted it again, rising just enough to peek through the opening. Squinting past her, Dasira saw a dimming sky etched by bare trees.
“Yeah, looks like this is outside of town,” Lark said. “Not too far. I can see buildings. I’ve never been here though. No piking idea where our headquarters is, or the Trifolders for that matter. We could stay down here until morning…”
Dasira glanced to the door in the wall. It looked completely normal, with no markings to indicate that it opened into a realm only a half-step up from the Void. The idea of staying in here with it for an entire night was petrifying.
Plus…
“The wraiths. If they have the arrowhead, they can track us here,” she said. “I doubt they’re afraid to fly at night. This place is only outside the walls because your people are warded against, right?”
Lark shrugged, lowering the trapdoor shut. “I’d assume so, but I don’t know.”
“Well, Shadow Folk don’t like magic, so we can bet that this room isn’t warded. Which means anyone can find us. If we get into the town, there might be some kind of protection—or at least enough interference to confuse the wraiths.”
Nodding slowly, Lark looked over them all then frowned and started shrugging out of her coat. “If we plan to go outside, we need to cover up,” she said. “You lot are practically naked. Good thing I’m wearing a whole weaver’s shop, eh?”
Dasira’s mouth twitched. For once, she had to agree.
They organized themselves swiftly, with Arik shifting down to human form and shrugging on Lark’s bear-hide coat—the only garment that would fit—while Dasira borrowed a tunic. They wrapped Cob in a long skirt and Arik hefted him again, the wildness still not gone from his eyes despite his form.
Fiora led the way out, with Lark following last to make sure the trapdoor was properly covered. All around them hunched snow-clad hills stitched with trees and fences, and ahead, in a shallow valley, lay Turo. With the cold wind cutting through their borrowed clothes, they made their way down.
A low wall surrounded this side of town, and they did not have to veer far to find a gap in it, with two guards watching their approach from the shelter of a tiny guardhouse. The men set down their cups and stood, waiting for them to get within earshot, but before any challenge could be made, Fiora motioned for a halt.
“I’ll deal with this, all right?” she said. No one protested.
Dasira watched the girl’s back as she spoke with the guards. They seemed to take no interest in her armor or sword, as if this was a usual sight, and after some gesturing and discussion one of the guards pointed toward a building down the road. Fiora turned to beckon to the group, then made a motion toward the guards like a benediction. One of them tapped his forelock respectfully, then they retreated to the guardhouse to sit by their stove.
“The healer’s house isn’t far,” said Fiora as they rejoined her. “This way.”
The guards watched them with undisguised interest as they passed, and Dasira regarded them sidelong, committing faces to memory in case something needed to be done. Neither wore a red cord or the subtle three-crossed-lines insignia of Trifold worship. She was just turning forward again when a fiery tingle ran up her leg, then hit her in the chest and face like a desert wind, causing her to break stride and nearly drop to her knees.
One of the guards made a thoughtful sound. She seriously considered killing him.
Instead, she put all her strength into following the others, even though the hot aura had clamped around her bracer like a restricting hand. She did not need to glance back to know that she had crossed some kind of Trifold ward. At another time, it would have stopped her completely, but she was not here to fight the cultists, and she had learned over the years that it had some capacity to sense intent. The threads that held her together were shriveling inward, trying to escape the punishing sensation, but they would not die.
She hoped.
The fiery sensation made it difficult for her to keep track of where they were going, and by the time they stopped she could no longer say how long they had been walking. All she saw was the wooden door they approached, and the red line just visible along its inner edge.
Don’t think I can do this.
But she could not back down, not with Fiora among them. Could not lurk outside the town hoping the others would fetch her when needed. She had to be near Cob. This was not the first time that following him had made her suffer, and she doubted it would be the last.
The door opened to Fiora’s knock, and a grizzled older man peered out. His gaze swept the group to lock on Arik, and she saw his jaw clench at the same moment that Arik’s shaggy hair bristled.
Then a woman’s voice came from inside, too lost in the pound of Dasira’s pulse for her to decipher, and the man withdrew sullenly. Arik’s hackles settled. Fiora said something, then entered the house, the others on her heels.
For a moment, Dasira just stared at the red line. She was already sweating despite the cold, her senses numbed to below their human level. Crossing another threshold, a smaller and more personal one, could be deadly.
Closing her eyes, she stepped through into the awful heat of the Trifolder home.
Chapter 10 – Crimson Decisions
West of the Rift, in the Crimson Army camp, the sun still hung high in the sky. The Blaze Company Special Platoon had gathered in a half-empty warehouse near the River Gate, as the barracks were too small for all the soldiers to stand comfortably, and though chairs had been set out for the three women, they stood as well—stiffly to attention, backs straight and eyes focused on their commander.
Captain Sarovy called names from the slate he had written out, connecting them with faces as the responses came. To his right and slightly behind stood Lieutenant Linciard, tense; to his left, Magus Voorkei and Scryer Mako, the latter with her eyes closed and her attention elsewhere. On the left side of the g
athered Specialists stood several soldiers from the other platoons: two sergeants and a handful of lower ranks, all of whom had unusual notes in their personnel files. In total, there were forty-two Specialists and eleven others gathered, Sarovy included.
Sarovy read the last name, then lowered the slate and let his gaze pan over the crowd. In his head, the faint tingle of Scryer Mako’s mental shielding locked into place. Houndmaster-Lieutenant Vrallek and Specialist-Sergeant Presh stood at the front of the platoon, and Specialist Weshker was in the scout section a few rows back. All was prepared.
Taking a deep breath, Sarovy thought, First order of business: knowledge.
“Normally I would have no call to speak with you separate from the rest of the company,” he said without preamble, pitching his voice to carry through the large room. Mage-lights flickered along the ceiling, casting ragged shadows through the crowd. “Nor would I do so in such a place. However, you are all aware that this is not a normal company, and we are not in a normal situation. Thus I have a request of you.
“I have read your files. They are cryptic. Some of you are ten-year veterans, some of you are very new, but this is the first time that most of you have been assigned alongside—I will say it bluntly—normal humans.”
A murmur went through the crowd. He noted Weshker looking nervously side-to-side.
“I do not know why any of you, individually, were assigned to me,” he continued. “What I do know is that the plan for Blaze Company is to see integration between all branches of the Crimson Army: archers, infantry, lancers, mages and specialists. This is not the early Jernizan campaign where we could expect to meet our enemies head-on in classic maneuvers, nor is it the Illanic push where shows of force and swift sieges kept our opponents down. I believe that we will be assigned less straightforward problems, and that the Crimson General has assigned you to me like a toolbox for an eclectic slate of jobs.
“I need to understand the use of these tools.
“Therefore, I am asking you to take off your illusions, if you use them.”
Another ripple of unease went through the specialists. Sarovy saw hands rise toward the collars of uniform coats, then hesitate. He focused on Vrallek. “Houndmaster-Lieutenant, if you would provide an example.”
The Houndmaster grunted, but turned to face the crowd and dug under his coat. As he pulled the golden teardrop pendant off, he changed, his bristly black hair clumping into short hard spikes, his skin revealed as plates of chitin beneath it. Sarovy could not see his face but remembered it well. Under his uniform, his build became bulky and weirdly ridged, the coat hanging loose in places and stretched in others.
Beside him, he saw Linciard shudder, but the lieutenant kept his mouth shut. Scryer Mako’s shield trembled in his head, then steadied.
“Thank you, Houndmaster-Lieutenant. Now the rest of you.”
“You heard the Captain,” Vrallek growled. “Do it.”
At Vrallek’s command, the Special Platoon became a blur of shifting faces. Sarovy saw Specialist Weshker stiffen in terror as the men around him, who had looked like Wynds and Amands and northern Illanites, Averognans and lowland Kerrindrixi, devolved into monsters. Jaws gaped and teeth gleamed in the mage-light.
No. Not monsters, Sarovy told himself. Specialists. The blessed. They serve the Light as I do; there is no reason to fear.
The fog of his previous mindwashings tried to lock him in a stupor, but he fought it down as scores of strange predatory eyes fixed on him. The air felt charged, and as he slowly mastered himself, he noticed that Vrallek still faced the platoon. He had expected the man to be leering at him in his mindwrought discomfort, but from the rigidity of his stance and shoulders, it seemed almost as if he was holding the other specialists back.
Right then, he understood how much he owed the Houndmaster.
He forced himself to scan the crowd, not meeting any gaze for more than a moment. The majority were Vrallek’s kind—ruengriin, man-eaters—and though there was some variety to them, particularly in size and build, they all had the same chitinous plates, the same teeth.
But there were others. The three women stood out boldly, as vivid as if lit from within, their skins marbled in patterns of bronze or gold and their shapely bodies threatening to spill free from the confines of their uniforms. Their eyes had gone honeycombed, and their hair moved slowly as if stirred by invisible currents. Off to the side, the two sergeants from the other platoons had changed similarly, but did not draw his eye the way the women did.
Even from this distance he could smell the perfume of their skin.
He tore his gaze away, the mental shield a welcome aid. Lagalaina, he guessed—the ‘drunk-making women’. Perhaps Weshker’s translations had been right. That would make the men the senvrakaenka.
Nothing had changed among the scouts, but they were discussing something, ignoring Weshker. After a moment, noting Sarovy’s attention, one of then rolled up his sleeve and raised a black-bracered arm, and the others followed suit.
In front of the platoon, Specialist-Sergeant Presh just looked amused.
“Thank you,” said Sarovy. “I will not ask you to go without your illusions in public, but eventually I will have you show yourselves to the rest of the company. We have to wait out the lingering effects of the mindwashes first, and I trust that you will not reveal yourselves irresponsibly before then.
“Now, I would know what you are, and what you can do. Houndmaster-Lieutenant?”
Without turning, Vrallek said in his gravelly voice, “Sir. I and the bulk of my men are ruengriinagagi. We are strong, we are fast, and we eat our enemies.”
“Not while you are in my company,” Sarovy intoned, looking from Vrallek to all the rest of the revealed ruengriin. “Whether or not you were previously permitted to do so, I will not have it happening under my command. Too messy.” Though privately, beneath his distaste, he could see some merit in the practice. It probably saved on burial and blood-price payouts if the bodies could not be found. “Is that all?”
The Houndmaster shrugged misshapen shoulders. “We are very, very strong, sir. We have claws.” He spread his fingers, and for the first time Sarovy noticed the nasty, bone-colored spur that tipped each. The eyes and the teeth had distracted him. “We can disembowel men through their chainmail, grass-dragons through their scales. Platemail is tougher. We were used to stop enemy cavalry in the Jernizan campaign, since animals fear us, and we are sturdier and swifter than humans. We are difficult to kill and feel no pain.”
Sarovy nodded slowly. Shock troops. Heavy armor, if they can wear it over those carapaces. No gauntlets if they’ll use their claws. Need to be checked thoroughly after battle if they truly feel no pain.
“Thank you, Houndmaster-Lieutenant. Shield-Sergeant Rallant?”
The sergeant, who had become a fiendishly handsome and slightly radiant gold-mottled creature, said, “Senvraka, sir.” His voice held a strange plurality, a buzz like wings in his throat.
“Senvrakaenka, yes?”
A ripple of amusement went through the platoon, and the sergeant scowled, showing small fangs. “We prefer ‘senvraka’, sir. ‘Best man’.”
“Explain your type.”
“We are controllers, sir. Leaders. Korr and I,” he nodded to the other non-specialist sergeant, “are assigned to human platoons because we can force humans to obey us. We helped quell the riots in Fellen and we keep dangerous situations running smoothly, like diplomatic engagements and hostage transfers. I’m with the infantry to keep them steady. Likewise Korr and his archers.”
“Your controlling, how does it work?”
“We…radiate, sir. It’s hard to explain, but anyone in our area becomes influenced or enthralled. We’ve inoculated our own platoons against the thralling part, because otherwise it makes them basically mindless and we’ve been told not to do that to Crimsons, so if we’re working shoulder-to-shoulder with the rest of the company, we need to inoculate them too.”
Inoculate? Sarovy th
ought. “I’ll take that under advisement, Sergeant. Thank you. Specialist Ilia?”
A female soldier with flowing blonde hair said, “Sir,” and smiled in a way that ran a shiver up Sarovy’s spine. Her voice held the same winglike buzz as the senvraka. “My sisters and I are lagalaina, and would like to clarify some things that Sergeant Rallant skipped. We are not controllers, we are seducers, and our job is not to ‘keep dangerous situations running smoothly’, it is to sleep with those in power and get them in thrall.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Sergeant Rallant with a sneer. “I’m an actual part of the Army, not a bed-hopping camp-follower.”
“Oh? And how many of your platoon have you slept with, Rallant?”
“That has nothing to do with the Captain’s—“
“Stop,” said Sarovy curtly. The two specialists fell silent, but glared daggers at each other from the corners of their eyes. Wonderful, Sarovy thought, and fixed his attention on a space above the woman's head. “Specialist Ilia, Sergeant Rallant is of superior rank even if he is not your direct superior. Speak to him with respect.”
“Yes sir,” said the woman stiffly.
“Sergeant Rallant, is there anything in your statement you would like to amend?”
“No sir.”
“Then, Specialist Ilia, tell me about the lagalaina. Not the senvraka.”
The woman huffed, but lifted her chin and turned her honeycombed eyes on Sarovy. His gaze was drawn to hers inexorably. “We are seducers,” she said again, her voice turning drowsily sweet. “We do the same things the boys do—take thralls and control groups. But I suppose since there are few women in power for the boys to seduce, it falls to us to ‘convince’ the ruling classes to be on our side. Most lagalaina are in court positions…royal mistresses and such, but my sisters and I are stuck here to back up the boys, since there are quite a lot of men they just can’t command like we can.”
Sarovy found himself nodding, almost hypnotized by her gaze, and forced his eyes away. Faint female laughter drifted through the crowd. “I see,” he said. “Thank you, Specialist Ilia.”
The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle) Page 26
