God's Last Breath

by Sam Sykes

  Gariath tensed. A surge of rage flooded through him, coursing from his nose to his heart and into his fingers. He could feel it in the way they curled up and into his palms, the need to hurt, to wrap around a farmer’s throat and choke the screams from him.

  To show her, to show this Prophet, that he could inflict upon her the same cold fear he had felt that night.

  Perhaps he wore his anger too plainly on his face, for a flash of a scent, something old and terribly dark, caught his nostrils. He glanced to his side. Mototaru stared at him expectantly.

  He drew in a hot breath of smoke. He let out a long, cold sigh.

  “No,” Gariath said. “Call the Mak Lak Kai back. I’ll need your clan.”

  “Then let us destroy a few things on the way back,” Chakaa offered.

  Gariath slowly shook his head and spoke softly.

  “We are not monsters.”

  Chakaa’s face screwed up in confusion before she shrugged helplessly. With another, even more awkward salute, she turned and left the house, slamming the door behind her. But her presence was still felt, in the reek of shit and the lingering tension radiating from Daaru.

  “It would have been smarter to send her out,” he said. “The warriors get nervous when the Mak Lak Kai are around.”

  “Good thing they’ll only be here for another week, then,” Gariath muttered.

  “Still, when the time comes to march, keep them in the back. Away from the—”

  “How did she do that?”

  Daaru blinked at Gariath’s interruption. When the dragonman turned around to face him, his own expression was one of bafflement.

  “There was no blood,” Gariath said. “She tore the arrow out of her like it was a tick. It’s not the first time I’ve seen her do something like that. If she can take an arrow to the chest and not feel it, I want her and her clan in the front.”

  Daaru and Mototaru exchanged a glance whose meaning was lost on him. When Daaru looked back, he shook his head.

  “That is … not a wise idea,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “The Mak Lak Kai are malaa.”

  Gariath snorted. “And here I was hoping tulwar would have less made-up bullshit words for idiots than humans. Yet every time I ask about them, I get more made-up bullshit words for idiots.” He shifted his scowl between the two tulwar. “Will I get a straight answer if I ask first? Or do I have to start beating the shit out of you?”

  It was Mototaru who spoke, albeit only after a long moment of emptying his pipe bowl out the window and packing a new one.

  “We are made by our Tul,” he said. “Our god is dead, and so we can never die.”

  “You’ve told me all this before,” Gariath growled.

  “I’ve told you part of it.” He lit his pipe, took a long smoke. “I am Humn. My Tul is long, old.” He tapped his head. “It remembers all its previous lives.” He gestured to Daaru. “Daaru is saan. His Tul dedicated itself to the art of war. It remembers nothing else but the blade. When he dies, his Tul will emerge in another body, another warrior.”

  “And the malaa?”

  “When the malaa die …” Mototaru began.

  “Their Tul doesn’t go anywhere,” Daaru said. “It simply … leaps back into their bodies. The malaa never bleed. The malaa never die.”

  “They’re immortal, then?” Gariath asked.

  “There isn’t a word in any clan’s tongue for what they are,” Mototaru said. “But they are not indestructible. They lose limbs. They lose eyes. Lungs give out, bones break, eventually there is nothing left of them.”

  “And then where do they go? Where does their Tul go?”

  A long period of silence followed. And far from the flippant gesture it should have been, Mototaru’s shrug was something heavy and dire.

  “It doesn’t.”

  Gariath stared at him for a moment before looking back out the window. Daaru cleared his throat and stepped forward.

  “Consider leaving them behind,” the young tulwar said. “Give them guard duty. The malaa are unstable … unnatural. The other warriors will rest easier if—”

  “Go,” Gariath interrupted. “Call the clans. Tell them we move soon.”

  “And what do I tell them about the malaa?”

  “They come with us,” the dragonman said. “Tell them anyone who has a problem with that should grab their sword, come see me, and hope I break it into small enough shards that they can swallow them comfortably.”

  Daaru stiffened and opened his mouth to say something, but a look from Mototaru silenced him. He merely grunted his acknowledgment and departed, slamming the door behind him.

  Mototaru let out a deep hum. “That could cause problems.”

  “Not as many problems as a clan of unkillable warriors can solve,” Gariath replied. “It’d be stupid to leave them behind.”

  “It’d be stupid to bring them along without knowing what they are,” the old tulwar said. “The malaa are not weapons you can draw and put away so easily. The tulwar are—”

  “The next metaphor that comes out of your mouth, I’m shoving it back in along with my fist.” Gariath stalked back to the map. “I know what the tulwar are.” He stared out over the parchment. “I know who they are.”

  He stared at it, tattered and scarred as it was from his claws, and he could still see them. Every tiny ink smear that would mark another grave. And at the edge of the map, where a jar of ink had spilled over and poured across the paper, he could see the tides of humanity marching over those graves, pounding those tulwar corpses into a road that led all the way to Jalaang.

  With her at their head.

  “But right now,” he muttered, “I need weapons.”

  He turned a scowl toward Mototaru.

  “All your traditions, all your problems, all your Tul, they won’t mean shit if we don’t win this. So forgive me if I don’t care to figure out who dies or doesn’t die for whatever reason until after we’ve won this.” He sneered, baring his teeth at the old tulwar. “Or do you have a better idea?”

  And Mototaru stared at him, empty, for a long moment. He took a long inhale on his pipe and looked toward the window, where the sun had already begun to sink out of the sky. And his voice was ash.

  “I wish I did.”

  SIXTEEN

  THE SPEAR

  The legend told around the fire was that the Howling was one of the few gifts that Riffid gave the shicts before casting them out of the Dark Forest to wander the mortal world. No one had ever disputed this legend, nor did anyone seem to really wonder if there was another reason.

  That Kataria had, however, was always just one more reason why she found it hard to fit in with her people.

  Riffid was not a vengeful goddess—or at least, it wasn’t possible to piss her off more than she already was—so Kataria had come up with several theories of her own as to how her people developed the ability to communicate wordlessly with each other.

  Maybe it was just a better way to hunt their prey silently. Maybe they had learned it long ago to find each other in the deep woods and long plains. But Kataria’s favorite theory was that the Howling was a rare kindness that made it so that no shict would ever be forced to be alone with her thoughts.

  This won’t work.

  Of course, given that Kataria had no company but her thoughts for the past three hours, it was entirely likely that she had been wrong about Riffid not being vengeful.

  She’s not coming. The map was wrong. You were wrong.

  Kataria let out a low growl and folded her ears over themselves, as though either of those would block out the thoughts.

  You can’t stop her. What made you think you could? Everyone’s going to die.

  They had always been there, of course. Since she had risen at dawn and ridden hard to the north, she hadn’t been able to hear them so clearly.

  All because of you.

  But here and now, atop a lonely dune beneath a sinking sun, there was nothing to distract her.r />
  The spot had almost been too good to be true. The tulwar’s map showed exactly where Shekune would be, exactly when, and her route wound its way through these narrow passes.

  Rocks and sand joined cozily here, with the latter piling up around the former in great, hard-packed dunes that never seemed to shift with the wind. The resulting formations of sand and stone rose up like monarchs of the desert, aloof and cold. Each tall, sloping dune wore a crown of stones and desiccated trees and was cloaked in obnoxiously resilient scrub grass.

  It made for several ideal positions—like the top of the dune she was currently on, nestled between two tall stones—for an ambush. Surely, Shekune knew that.

  But then, it was easy to see why Shekune chose to use this as her patrol. The narrow paths winding through the dunes would prove a challenge for clumsy humans or tulwar and their awkward horses and gaambols. But clever shicts on skulking yijis would find it easy enough.

  The hard-packed earth left only a few precious tracks. It had been a miracle that Kataria had found them at all. But from their route through the dunes, she had realized the purpose behind Shekune’s long patrols.

  Humans had their commanders: kings to bow to, generals to look to, warlords to answer to. Tulwar had their clans: camps to set up, hordes to form, great tides to move.

  But shicts? Shicts had no kings. Shicts had no clans. Shicts were ghosts, bad dreams that came in during the night. They moved like shadows, quickly and quietly.

  Shekune would keep them in small bands throughout the desert, separated so as to not draw attention from the other races. And she would doubtless be moving between them even now, conferring strategy, issuing orders.

  Preparing them for a war.

  Even as she led them to a slaughter.

  Why could the rest of them not see it? The thought flashed across her skull every other breath now, each time with increasing anger. How could all of them follow Shekune so willingly? How could they all be so blind as to how this would end? How could they all be so … so …

  She clenched her teeth, shook her head.

  That didn’t matter now.

  Whatever their reasons, she couldn’t afford to think about it. She knew where this led, even if they didn’t. And she knew how to stop it.

  One arrow. Right through the throat. Shekune would never see it coming. One arrow. And this would all be over. Her people would be saved.

  Unless …

  The thought came creeping in on soft, spidery legs.

  Someone else rises up to take her place.

  She wanted to think that wouldn’t happen. But then, Shekune hadn’t tricked them, hadn’t beguiled them. She had merely spoken to them.

  And they had listened.

  Even Kwar had followed Shekune willingly.

  Kwar …

  Kataria felt her eyes drift across the dunes, searching for her, even as she knew she’d never see her. Somewhere in all those stones and underbrush, Kwar was hidden, watching the angles Kataria couldn’t see. She hadn’t seen so much as a flash of the khoshict for hours now.

  They had spared so little when they had parted: just a few words, a quick kiss. It had been too swift a good-bye, too full of certainty that they would come out of this all right. And only now, alone with nothing but her thoughts and the lonely murmur of the wind, did Kataria realize she had so much more to say.

  Should have run, she told herself. Should have taken her and run. Shekune couldn’t even start this war by herself and you think you can stop it on your own. You can’t do it. They’re going to die. You’re going to lose everything again. You’re going to …

  Her ears pricked up, suddenly full of sounds heavier than her thoughts. She shut out the latter, forced herself to focus on the former, and let them fill her ears.

  Paws crunching on hard-packed sand.

  Quiet murmurs from behind wooden masks.

  The excited yowl of a slavering beast.

  She’s here.

  The last thought Kataria allowed herself. Thought was useless now. Now was the time for the hunt and the bow. Now was the time for instinct.

  She picked up her bow. An arrow all but leapt to her fingers as she crept as far out from between the rocks as she dared and strung it. She didn’t bother drawing it in anticipation; her arm would tire, her heartbeat would betray her. Arrows didn’t heed thoughts or hopes. Archery was an instinct.

  Patience, though, she had to learn on her own.

  They came rounding a dune just a breath later. Four of them, all mounted on yijis. The beasts wound their way through the hard-packed paths carefully, trotting at a light pace, their riders bobbing on their crested backs. Three of them, she didn’t know: warriors wearing wooden masks and carrying bows and hatchets on their beasts. But the fourth …

  She rode unassumingly, wore the same leathers, the same mask as the rest of them. Her hair was a riot of black feathers, like theirs were. But there was something in the way she held herself, so tall on her yiji’s back, her eyes staring at something so far away the rest of them didn’t even know it was there, that Kataria recognized her.

  Even without the massive saw-toothed spear she carried draped over her shoulder.

  Shekune.

  She felt her ears twitch involuntarily. That tremor ran down her neck, through her arm, sent her fingers quaking. She forced them still but could feel something raw and animal beneath her skin. It was as though, even without even knowing she was there, Shekune was speaking without words, without Howling, whispering a fear made just for her.

  It couldn’t be this easy, it whispered. She couldn’t succeed, couldn’t do it, couldn’t save everyone, couldn’t—

  Enough.

  A long, slow breath. A raised bow. A nocked arrow.

  Whatever it couldn’t be, it had to be now.

  Shekune and her retinue continued through the winding passage for another few feet before it happened. The yijis began to growl, yip, and whine excitedly. Their riders spit orders, kicked their flanks in an attempt to make them obey.

  But even the most loyal yiji was, at best, only half-domesticated—it was that feral nature that khoshicts said made them so effective at hunting. And a pack of yijis with the scent of dead meat in their nostrils—such as the dead meat that came from the yiji Kwar had killed farther up the chasm and left in the road—would make any one of the beasts excited.

  Kataria waited, anticipating that one of the riders should suspect something and look in her direction. But their attentions were focused on calming their mounts down. They whined and muttered but made little movement.

  Shekune was right there.

  Unmoving.

  Eyes straight ahead.

  One breath to pull. One breath to aim. One breath to release, Kataria told herself. You’ve done this a thousand times. You’ve killed so much bigger. This is no different.

  Her fingers believed that as her grip tightened on her bow and she drew the arrow back to her cheek. Her eyes believed that as she narrowed her gaze upon Shekune, so far below, and aimed right for her chest. But some part of her, in some dark and empty part of her chest, did not believe that.

  And maybe it was that part that Shekune heard.

  A half a breath. Right between her second and third. A long pair of dark-skinned ears twitched, went upright. A wooden mask turned to look up the long slope of the dune. A pair of hollow eyes stared across the sands, between the rocks, and within that darkness, Kataria could feel Shekune’s stare.

  Right at her.

  Fuck.

  She heard it. Her ears twitched. The tremor ran down her arm, bade her fingers release. The bowstring murmured. The arrow shrieked.

  A moment of fear wasn’t enough to undo a lifetime of instinct. The arrow flew straight for Shekune. Its song was angry and brief. It ended in the meaty smack of metal cleaving dark flesh and a long, agonized scream.

  A body slid to the earth and lay dead.

  No.

  And it was not Shekune’s.

&
nbsp; NO!

  How had he moved that fast? It was only half a breath! How did he manage to get his yiji under control? How did he see her? How did he know? How?

  For all the questions boiling inside her, only one spoke loud enough to be heard.

  Why?

  She stared at him, this khoshict she didn’t know, lying on the earth with her arrow jutting of his chest, staring up at the sky through the hollow eyes of his mask.

  Why did you die for her?

  A yiji let out a shriek. She turned toward Shekune. And Shekune was gone.

  Her yiji was howling, running, charging up the dune. Her spear was glistening, its sawteeth wide in a grin. And her eyes, alive with fury behind her mask, were right on Kataria.

  Another arrow leapt to her hand, left the bow, sailed toward her. It struck her yiji and the beast let out a yipe, but she spurred it forward. Kataria drew another and fired; it flew wide. She drew another, and another, even as the sound of the yiji’s thunderous charge filled her ears.

  It didn’t matter if she died.

  It didn’t matter if they killed her.

  So long as Shekune also died here, then everyone else would be safe.

  That was what she told herself to keep from running. That was what she told herself to keep her aim steady as she drew back another arrow and stared down Shekune until she drew so close Kataria could hear the sound of her breath.

  There would be no missing this time.

  Her breath left her in a sudden explosion. She felt the wind break as a massive pair of jaws snapped shut around the air behind her. She felt herself crash against the earth as a heavy weight bore her down.

  Kwar.

  Without even looking up, she knew.

  Mostly by the war cry that followed.

  Kwar leapt off her, tore her knife and hatchet free from her belt, and whirled on Shekune. Kataria crawled to her rear and scrambled to snatch up an arrow.

  A cloud of dust trailed behind Shekune’s yiji as it went rampaging past, carried by the momentum of its charge. But the thrill of slaughter was in its nose now, and when Shekune wheeled the beast around, its snarl was so wide it was almost a grin. The chieftain let out a cry that was echoed by the yiji as she kicked forward into another charge.