by Sam Sykes
“I will be fine,” he said. He lied, rather. Drawing in a breath, he knew he had spent too much. He would have to get more. Someone else would have to die. “We will be fine.” He looked up and managed a weary smile. “I saw them, Asper. They’re coming.”
The priestess’s eyes widened. Gariath’s, however, betrayed nothing.
“An army,” he said. “I saw torches. Hundreds. Thousands, maybe. They just entered the Green Belt. They were marching for Cier’Djaal.”
“That’s not …” She shook her head. “That doesn’t—”
“It does!” Dreadaeleon nodded vigorously. “Someone has come to help, Asper! This city is going to be safe! Everyone will be saved!”
Perhaps he had missed something—some crucial point of information or important conversation. Or maybe he had said something the wrong way—too enthusiastic, not sensitive enough. Something, surely, had to explain why she looked at him with such alarm and sorrow painted on her face.
“Dread,” she said, “my army was destroyed. Totally. There were no survivors.”
He felt the frown weigh on his face. “Then who—”
“Mine.”
Their eyes both turned to Gariath. His voice came without passion. His eyes were dark and empty. He did not even blink as he spoke.
“It is my army,” he said. “My tulwar. They are coming.”
“To help?” Dreadaeleon asked. “To make the city safe?”
Gariath simply stared at him. And his silence filled the night sky.
“You …” Asper stared at the dragonman, breathless, trying to summon the words. “You … you …” And eventually, she found an old favorite. “PIECE OF SHIT!”
She leapt at him, her sword coming down in a shining arc. His arm went up, catching the blade on his bracer. Yet whether he was that wounded or she was that furious, he staggered under her blow.
“You said your army was broken!”
She pressed her blade against him. Sparks flew from the kiss of their metal. She drove him back a step, then another, then another. Her shield lashed out, caught him in the chin, and sent him reeling.
“You said they had gone home!”
He brought up his hand to defend himself as she drove forward. But he could not raise his arm high enough and she could not stop her charge. Her blade stabbed past his arm, found his flank, and dug deep into it. His howl was long and loud, ending only as she slammed her boot into his gut and sent him sprawling, rolling along the stones.
“You said fighting me was a mistake!”
He staggered to one knee. He spit blood onto the ground. And even through all the wounds he bore, his face betrayed not a hint of rage or sorrow as he looked at her with empty black eyes and spoke, painfully softly.
“I lied.”
Shock battled horror on her face. In the end, fury strangled them both. The scream she let out was not her own. It belonged to the dead. It belonged to the survivors. It belonged to the weak and the sick and the dying. And it carried her forward in a savage charge, her sword flashing red over her head, ready to cleave Gariath’s skull in two.
And it would have.
Had a wall of flames not leapt up between them.
She skidded to a halt and let out a scream. She sought a way through the blaze with wild eyes, but the flames only grew hotter as she did.
Through a veil of orange and red, Gariath rose on shaking feet. His blood pooling on the stones, his arm hanging limp at his side, he regarded her with a stare that was not mocking, not scornful, not even irritated. Eyes like his, obsidian hard and black, could only scarcely betray it, but for a brief moment, Gariath looked almost apologetic.
As he turned his back to her.
As he limped away.
As he disappeared into the darkness.
“You!” She whirled about and saw Dreadaeleon on his hands and knees, one arm outstretched, controlling the flames. “How could you? You little, vile—”
She couldn’t find a word foul enough to finish. And if her snarl was any indication, the kick she settled on delivering to his ribs was not sufficient, either. He rolled away, gasping for breath, unable to lift a finger to defend himself as she seized him by the collar, as she hauled him to his feet, as she leveled her sword at his throat.
“You …” he gasped, “you …”
“Don’t fucking say it,” she snarled. “Don’t fucking try to explain yourself. I have fucking had it with letting people do this to me. I have lost everything! And I have been betrayed by everyone and—”
“Not by yourself.”
He hung limp in her hands. He was having a hard time breathing. But while she hadn’t moved the blade from his throat, she at least hadn’t driven it through, either.
Not the worst start.
“You can’t stop them, Asper,” he said. “I saw them. They are thousands. They will be here by morning, too.” He swallowed hard. “Kill Gariath, you change nothing except maybe getting killed yourself. And then no one can save these people.”
“How?” she demanded. “Dread, how the fuck am I supposed to do that? How was saving him going to change anything? How the hell do you think I’m going to do it?”
“I know you can.”
“How?”
“Because,” he gasped, “you promised.”
And she lowered the blade.
And the fury ebbed from her face.
And while it wasn’t kindness or softness or anything gentle that remained behind, there was something in her eyes. Something hard, something unyielding, something that had been there every time she had struck him, every time she had hurled abuse at him. Something that could get things done.
And she dropped him to the ground.
And she sheathed her sword. And shouldered her shield. And she walked off into the darkness, as he knew she would, to uphold her promise, leaving him limp and exhausted on the ground.
He might die here, of course. The tulwar might find him, the magic might burn out in his veins. But this city would be safe because of her. And she would be safe because of him.
And that was reason enough to smile, had he the energy to do so.
FORTY-SEVEN
A STILL AND SILENT HELL
The moment the knife slid into his side, Lenk knew he wasn’t dead.
His scream tore him out of his unconsciousness. His eyes opened to a blurry red haze. But whatever instinct told him not to die just then also told him to seize the blade. His fingers found the knife, tore it from the hand that drove it in, and pulled it from his side. He slashed wildly with it, aiming for an indistinct blob of red and black in front of him.
“Ah.” Through the pain, the sound of a feminine voice was sharp and fresh. “Not as dead as we thought.”
His hand went to his side. He felt blood, but not the kind of thick gush that would indicate a fatal wound. Had he woken up just a moment later …
He held the blade out before him, slashing blindly as he sought to recover the feeling in his body. He could remember falling from a great height, plummeting into the earth. He did not remember the impact. Though he could feel and smell something soft and musty beneath him: old silks, long since moth-eaten and rotted, but enough to spare him a grisly end.
Sight returned to him last of all and, as the red haze blurred and was replaced by darkness, the shadows standing before him took shape.
Short. Lean. Dark of skin and hair. Their ears were pointed up and quivering like spears. Their faces were empty eyes and hollow smiles. Six of them—maybe seven, it was hard to tell. And at their lead, as tall and rigid as the spear in her hand, a woman wearing the face of a man.
“A pity.” Shekune spoke in long, languid tones. “You survived the fall. It does not seem fair.”
Khoshicts.
Armed with short blades and dressed in dark leathers, they observed him through the vacant grins of their wooden masks.
Get up.
His mind urged him to move, but the rest of him was not listening. He might ha
ve survived the fall, but his body didn’t believe it. His leg felt twisted. His ribs were bruised. His head was swimming and he was bleeding from more than a few cuts.
He managed to claw his way to his rear, then to his knees, all the while flailing with the knife in a desperate bid to hold the khoshicts off. Yet they made no move to attack him. Indeed, they seemed amused to watch him struggle.
“Stay back,” he gasped as he struggled to one foot. “I didn’t … I didn’t kill him. I have to finish it. I have to …”
“Finish what?” Shekune chuckled. “The demon?” She shook her head. The flayed skin nailed to her mask quivered. “He looked quite bloody when you left him. I am impressed, kou’ru.”
“He’s still alive.” His leg was wrenched, and it screamed out in agony as he forced himself to stand. But he forced himself, nonetheless. “I have to stop him. He’ll kill us all.”
“Will he?” Shekune sounded mildly bemused.
“Yes! Everyone in the city!”
He made a move to push past them, to head back toward the Souk. He found her grinning spearhead leveled at his throat.
“And who,” she asked, “is in this city beyond humans?”
He stared down at the spearhead before looking up into the desiccated flesh of her mask. His thoughts crystallized through the pain and his eyes widened at the realization.
“You can’t be serious,” he said. “You saw that thing. Anything he doesn’t rule, he’ll kill. You, me, everyone. If I don’t stop him—”
“Then he reigns over the land with an iron fist. All who gaze upon him bow before him or die in vain.” Shekune’s growl rumble out of her mask. “My people have lived in these deserts since before yours learned to walk upright, round-ear. I have heard the legends.”
She thrust the spear a little closer, forcing him back a step. He saw the fear in his eyes reflected as its grinning head brushed against the skin of his throat.
“I know what happens if you do not kill him,” she said. “And I know what happens if you do. If you do not stop him, this desert and everywhere else shall be turned upside down and everything changes. And if you do …”
From the eyes carved into her mask, he could feel her scowl.
“Nothing changes. Your people have a celebration, build a statue of you, forget you, go back to making money, and everything goes on like it always has. And my people?”
She spun the spear suddenly. The haft of it struck him hard against the side of his head and sent him to the ground.
“My people die. My people are pushed back into the dark places. My people lose land to your cities, lose lives to your greed, lose family to your wars. You seek to save a world that would kill us. You are a hero to those who would murder us.”
She took her spear in both hands. In the dim and dying light, its saw-toothed grin seemed to grow anticipatorily broader.
“My people need your blood.”
Lenk tried to back away as she approached, holding his knife out, puny against her spear. Fear played in his pain. Pain racked his body. He drew in deep, ragged breaths.
“You’re insane,” he said. “He’ll come for you! Those who don’t serve him—”
“We will hide. We will let him gorge himself on your people.”
“But he’ll come for you, eventually! He’s a demon! If I don’t kill him here—”
“We will find a way. The legends are long. We will do it.”
“But how?” Lenk’s eyes widened as he screamed. “How are you going to survive?”
From beneath her mask, he could see her lips curl into a soft and cruel smile.
“We survived humanity. A demon will not be so hard.”
She raised the spear over her head. She aimed for his chest. She tightened her grip. She thrust.
And a hand shot out.
Both her eyes and his went to the woman who had appeared beside her. Another khoshict, yet this one wore no mask. Her hair hung in thick, sweat-slick strands. Her dark scowl smoldered. And her canines were a stark white in the dark as her lips curled back in a snarl.
“Let go, Kwar,” Shekune commanded.
“I did not want to believe it,” Kwar whispered in reply. “I did not want her to be right. But she was, wasn’t she?”
“She is not one of us. She never was.”
“You would kill us all. By war, by demons, it does not matter.” Kwar shook her head. “You want vengeance so badly that you don’t care if we all die to get it.”
“Perhaps she is right …”
Another voice. One of the khoshicts approached. He removed his mask, revealing an older man beneath, face weathered by wrinkles and eyes heavy with sorrow.
“Perhaps there can be another way,” the older shict said.
“Sai-Thuwan,” Shekune replied. “You cannot believe that.”
“I … I do not know.” He shook his head. “There has been so much death already, and if vengeance will only bring more … how many must die before we have achieved our goal?”
“I do not want vengeance.” Shekune spoke softly. “I want to protect our people. I want to make sure no shict ever meets a fate like your wife. Like your son.”
“Do not speak of them!”
Kwar roared and tried to tear the spear from Shekune’s grasp. But Shekune was older, stronger. She pulled back, drove her knee into Kwar’s side, and threw her to the ground. She snarled, hefting her spear over her head.
“It is a disease,” she hissed. “They are a disease. Kataria had it and now it has spread to you. You linger around humans and this is what they do to you.” She growled and drew her grip tight. “This will be kinder, Kwar. You will see.”
“NO!”
Sai-Thuwan hurled himself at the woman. She was swift, swinging her spear about to meet him. And he was slow. The head’s sawteeth caught him in the side and tore a great burst of blood from his flank. He let out a gurgling shriek as he fell. Kwar screamed out something dark and deep. The other khoshicts fell back, agog.
And Lenk saw his chance.
While the spear was tangled with Sai-Thuwan, he lunged forward. The knife found a way between the woman’s arms, into her chest. She let out a scream as he sank it to the hilt.
Her foot lashed out, caught him in the belly, and sent him barreling backward. He fell to the ground and just as quickly began scrambling to get back up, ready for the blades that would follow.
But the other khoshicts were concerned for their chieftain. They swarmed around her, seizing her by her arms and legs and hoisting her up. Shouting among themselves in their own language, they pulled her into the darkness, disappearing with her.
And Lenk was left with a pair of bodies.
“Father …” Kwar cradled Sai-Thuwan’s body in her arms. The old khoshict was rasping, his eyes glazed, his face twisted in pain. “Father, why did you …” She forced words out of a snarl. “Why are you so stupid?”
Huh, Lenk thought. I guess all shicts are like that.
Sai-Thuwan let out only a pained groan in response. Lenk approached warily.
“Here,” he said. “Let me help.”
Kwar held up a hand, slick with her father’s blood. “He will live. But I will help him.” She looked at him with hard eyes. “Is it true what you said? Can only you kill the demon?”
Lenk met her eyes and nodded. “As far as I know.”
She grunted. “Then do that.”
She hoisted Sai-Thuwan to his feet, whispering to him in their own language as she did. He was limp, groaning in agony, but his ears were aloft and quivering. Together, they began to make their way away, slipping into the darkness.
They had almost disappeared entirely before Lenk called out.
“Thank you.”
Kwar paused. “It wasn’t for you that I did it.”
“I mean, that makes twice now. Whether it’s for me or not … I still owe you.”
Kwar’s eyes dropped to the ground. A heavy sorrow painted her face.
“Shekune is not
dead. I can hear her still.” She shook her head. “I showed her the way into the city. And now she has killed us all.” She shut her eyes. “Everything Kataria tried to stop … I betrayed it all.”
She looked over her shoulder at him.
“I can never face her. She hates me for what I did. And I deserve it. But if you owe me …” Her words became a whispered choke. “Then tell her I am sorry. Tell her I cannot undo it. But … if it would still mean she is still alive to hate me …”
Tears formed at the corners of her eyes and slid down her cheeks.
“Tell her I would do it again. Every time.”
They began to disappear.
And Lenk began to watch them.
And before they vanished entirely, Lenk found his hand reaching out. He found himself touching her shoulder. He felt her grow tense under his touch. He saw her ears twitch as he spoke.
“She would want you to tell her yourself.”
Kwar stared at him, searched his face, as though searching for a lie or a trick or a mental illness that would have made him say such a thing. But all he offered her was a weary smile.
“Take care of him,” he said. “Then, find us. Find her.”
“But you …”
“It’s not about me.”
She stared at him for a moment longer. Then she nodded. And with her father, they slid into the darkness.
Lenk didn’t have the heart to tell her that, for all he knew, Kataria might be dead.
But it didn’t really matter, did it?
After all, as he turned and started hurrying back toward the Souk, it wouldn’t be too long before he was dead, too.
FORTY-EIGHT
HEAVEN’S THRONE STANDS EMPTY
The stones were silent.
And there were no birds to sing, nor beasts to cry, nor wind to moan.
And the skies grew still and dark and the distant ocean held its breath.
As all the world fell into a respectful silence as it waited for a god to die.
Lenk limped through the gate to the Souk expecting to find his death. He expected a bellowing, wrathful demon, recovered from his wounds and ready for more battle. He expected the heavens to part and bare a bloodred sky. Failing all that, he expected a tremendous foot to simply come down and crush him.
