The Fourth Runi (The Fledgling Account Book 4)

by Y. K. Willemse

  “Don’t cry, Rafen,” Etana said softly.

  “I’m not crying,” Rafen said through his teeth. “We are not dying – none of us. Get up!”

  He shook her. She had drifted off, leaning against him. Her eyes opened, and a faint, odd light gleamed in them.

  “Leave me now, Rafen. I’m going to see Kasper.”

  Rafen’s blood ran cold. Nazt was telling him over and over that they were going to perish, and now his wife was saying the same thing.

  His grip on her tightened. “You are married to me, not to your brother,” he growled, shaking her again.

  Etana gave a feeble cry.

  “Oi, oi,” Sherwin said, struggling to his feet and staggering over to them. “Raf, let go of ’er.”

  “We have to keep going, Sherwin,” he said desperately, releasing Etana.

  She flopped face forward onto the snow and managed to prop herself up.

  “She wants to die… she wants to see Kasper again…”

  Everything was spinning around him, and Rafen wasn’t entirely sure the faintness was to do with hunger. He could already feel the tightness in his muscles that he now associated with seizures.

  This couldn’t happen. Not now.

  He painfully got to his feet, quaking. Nazt was screaming at him to stay where he was, to stop thinking, to stop worrying, and to start trusting. After all, they knew what was best. The spirits leering in his vision were telling him so, and their presence was so much more overpowering than Sherwin.

  “Sherwin,” Rafen said. He had forgotten what he was going to say. He put a hand to his temple. “Zion, please, You’ve got to help me—”

  “I know. We ’ave to go,” Sherwin said. “I’ll carry Etana for yer, Raf.”

  “Leave her. We’ll go quicker without her.”

  Sherwin’s gaze became very hard. “Raf, do yer not remember marryin’ her?”

  Rafen stared at Sherwin.

  “Marrying who?” he said stupidly. He grabbed Sherwin’s arm. “I think I’m going mad. I’m going to have a seizure. Help me. We have to go as far as we can before it takes me.”

  “Etana’s lyin’ on the snow, Raf,” Sherwin said. “She’s goin’ to catch pneumonia or somethin’. I’ll carry her. Yer don’ want her to lose the baby.”

  “I’ll carry her,” he said, wildly angry at himself. “Sherwin, you’ve got to pray for me – Nazt is taking over!”

  Sherwin seized his shoulder and roared to the world around him in his British accent, “ZION, EI WAI UKI NISHALO NAZT, AL D WAI TIU UKI ORS RN. We’ll go as far as we can before yer seize up,” he said, lowering his voice.

  “Yes,” Rafen said, warmth washing over him as he stared at the white world beyond the faint golden shield around them. His legs no longer felt hollow. “Let’s be gone.”

  *

  Asiel had bound Francisco so tightly, strengthening the rope with kesmal, that he could scarcely feel his fingertips and lower legs. His back and muscles aching, he stood ramrod straight against the post. Fritz had been bound on the other side, and to Francisco’s surprise, he had not put up a fight. Francisco supposed there were too many philosophers nearby for him to risk it. Besides, the possibility Asiel might wound Francisco as a way of getting to the king could have restrained him. With Asiel standing sentinel, Francisco and he could not even converse.

  Francisco’s face was swollen. He squinted at the dark tents peppering the Ravine floor. Philosophers wove in and out of them, trying to control the occasional romping Naztwai. Fritz’s heavy breathing from behind told Francisco the king was cold. His presence was somehow greatly comforting. At least Francisco wasn’t alone. Francisco lifted his eyes from the fungi-splashed ground to the stars, veiled by the white mist above. It would have been nice to have seen them before he died. He would have been connected with Sherwin, Etana, and Rafen, who lay beneath the same sky tonight and viewed the heavenly lights. Bertilde appeared in his mind, and longing twisted his insides.

  She will think well of me, though I do not return.

  If he strained his sight, Francisco could see to the far left, above himself, the very place where Kasper had died. The vision of that moment still lingered before his mind, and he shuddered. Kasper and his brother Robert had saved his life once. It was a shame it had been in vain.

  To the left of Francisco, Asiel’s glinting eyes lit up for a second. He departed as Francisco felt the seeping cold and smelled the characteristic decay. His heart leapt to his throat at the memory of the blue tip of the copper rod heading for his eye two years ago. He did not think he could do this again.

  The heavy rotting odor washed over him as the Lashki placed the copper rod under his chin.

  “Francisco,” he said so quietly Francisco strained to hear him, “would that you were your brother.”

  Francisco breathed shallowly, his mouth too dry for speaking. Something in him wildly hoped Fritz would intervene.

  “Why is your brother not here to save you?”

  The blue tip ignited, revealing the Lashki’s dripping face and dead black eyes. The gashes on his temple only served to make him more menacing.

  Francisco tried to swallow, but didn’t manage it.

  “I asked you a question,” the Lashki said, his rod pressing harder against Francisco’s neck.

  At the first hint of pain, Francisco screamed, “I do not know where he is!”

  A sly smile appeared on the Lashki’s face, though his eyes remained cold. “I never managed to finish last time,” he said softly.

  The Lashki twisted the copper rod. A sharp burst of pain exploded behind Francisco’s eyes, and he found it bearable this time. It was not the full kesmalic assault of his “punishment” in the New Isles palace. The Lashki was holding back… waiting for something.

  “What have been the Soul Breaker’s effects on your brother?” he hissed.

  The Lashki’s breath steamed on Francisco’s face; the smell was overpowering, and a buzzing emanating from the copper rod filled his head.

  With watering eyes, he glared at the Lashki, heat flushing him even though the Ravine was frigid.

  “You will not find him,” he spat. “He will kill you in the end.”

  The Lashki’s eyes dilated. Then he withdrew his copper rod and swung it into Francisco’s temple. The bang in Francisco’s head was followed by the warmth of blood on his skin. The copper rod had flicked down to his throat again, and this time when the ignited tip touched his skin, the pain was huge, an actual Presence that blasted him against the post and vibrated through his body. Vomit surged into Francisco’s throat. He was sure he would spew out his entire innards.

  The rod was gone, and he was hanging like a carcass in the ropes, his vision dimming, his front soaked with his own bile. The surrounding cold was very strong again, and he wondered what exactly Fritz was thinking and doing at this precise moment on the other side of him.

  The Lashki’s sticky tread receded, even as his voice carried back: “Asiel, give the corpse to the Naztwai in the morning.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Talmon’s

  Treachery

  Talmon stepped out of the shadows as swiftly and silently as he could. He was shaking, despite his every effort. This would be the second time he had done such a thing. He told himself it was foolishness, madness.

  And yet the Tarhians had very strong ties to their children. His own father, a merchant who had traveled to southern Sarient and back again, had taken twenty lashes in Talmon’s place once, in Pavel. Talmon had been only twelve and had taken an apple from a stall without paying for it. The Sartian officials would have had him flogged publicly.

  The question was not whether it was right or wrong. It was not even whether it was what his Master would want. He knew that answer before the question entered his head. It was an instinct. As Annette had once told him, every heart had its own weakness.

  Well, Francisco was his.

  He couldn’t believe he had left Tarhia yet again for somethi
ng of this nature. What with one thing and another, recently he felt as if he had spent very little time in the country he ruled. Upon the Lashki’s recovery, which everyone knew about and no one spoke of, the Master had invited Talmon along for another trip to Siana, for a “great celebration of Nazt”, as he called it. The Fourth Runi would be destroyed. Their sway over both the East and the West would be strengthened through his death. So Talmon had left Ira, one of his philosophers and chief advisors, in charge yet again, and he had traveled here through the kesmal of others. It had been a horrible and abrupt journey, following ridiculously close on the heels of his homecoming voyage after the loss of the New Isles palace.

  And this had been the result.

  He crept closer to the post, staring at Asiel’s hunched form in the darkness that was flecked with lightly falling snow. The powder Talmon had stolen from Annette’s tent and slipped into Asiel’s water pouch would have worked by now. Annette had made her escape early in the afternoon, unlike Asiel. Although Asiel had tried, Master had returned too quickly. His punishment, which the Lashki would likely give tomorrow once he had had time to consider it, was only going to be compounded by this inexplicably deep sleep.

  Talmon paused right before Francisco, his ears attuned to his labored breathing. He slowly removed the hood of his own cloak and stooped so that his face was before Francisco’s drooping head.

  “Francisco,” he whispered.

  Francisco’s eyes were closed. Even in the shadows, Talmon detected darker patches on the skin of his forehead and throat. He felt Francisco’s soiled neck gently, but as he had expected, the Lashki’s kesmal had not left any swelling. The full damage would be within, and the stain on the skin would be the only sign of it.

  Talmon glanced behind himself at the silent tents on the Ravine floor. A group of five hundred Naztwai was herded at the other end of the Ravine, behind the sleeping quarters. They stood stock still, their breath steaming the air. Talmon hated the foul creatures. They were controlled by the Lashki’s willpower alone, and there were times when Talmon was sure he was going turn them loose on the entire camp.

  His pulse bubbling, Talmon rounded the post to where Fritz was bound. The supposedly dead man was staring ahead of himself without expression, as if he were keeping the midnight watch. Talmon watched him with narrowed eyes. This phenomenon should not have been possible. How could one already murdered return?

  Fritz’s eyes flicked to him, and Talmon started and muttered a Tarhian charm under his breath to protect himself from evil spirits.

  “You will break the ropes now,” he whispered. “Your guard is asleep.”

  Fritz waited a moment. Then he said, “There are other guards. I counted forty before.”

  “None are watching,” Talmon breathed. “They are gone now.”

  This man was a fool. Could he not see his chance to escape?

  “You have the sorcery,” Talmon said. “Break your ropes, and I will be on the other side to catch him.”

  “No,” Fritz said, an odd gleam in his eyes. “Tonight is the night. There is no escaping the future. I was told death was coming to me.”

  Talmon’s breathing quickened somewhat, and he smiled. So Rafen had told him then. However, this was not remotely helpful now.

  “You are not going to die this night,” Talmon murmured, drawing closer to Fritz despite his own revulsion. “I know how you died, those decades ago. My Master came into your library when you were least expecting it, when you were at your books. You battled, he overpowered you, and you died.”

  Fritz laughed low in his throat. “But I still died,” he said.

  Talmon clenched his teeth. “Everyone dies,” he growled.

  “The Runi were said to be immortal.”

  Talmon mentally remarked the theory had never been tested under ordinary circumstances yet. Fritz and Thomas had been murdered; his Master had easily overcome them both. And his Master had also purposely created a body with fewer limitations than his previous one. Even if Alakil had been immortal, invincible to old age and natural death, he could still have been killed in battle or struck down by disease. Now he was unstoppable.

  Talmon stared at Fritz, his hands balled into fists. Francisco had to be out of this camp within the hour.

  “You will not die, though you are a milksop,” he lied. “If you stay within this time long enough, you will avoid it all together. If not, you will find and inhale or apply the yerra herb in the event of your death, and so put your body into death-like sleep until it is healed and awakened. Now, my son is—” He stopped short and swallowed. “The boy is dying,” he said in a strained voice. “Francisco is dying. You must help. Break the ropes.”

  Fritz lifted his eyes to stare at Talmon through the thick darkness. A faint snap sounded, and even as the ropes fell, Talmon had rounded the post and caught Francisco in his arms, saving him from hitting the ground.

  Fritz was at Talmon’s side instantly, and Talmon’s hands shook as he supported Francisco. He did not even have a free hand to draw his sword. He turned nervously to stare at the tall Sartian.

  Fritz stepped closer, and Talmon inhaled sharply. He had seen the man before! In his childhood, he had seen Fritz. The Sianian king had threatened Talmon’s own father on a market day in New Isles. Talmon wasn’t sure if he had been more afraid then or now.

  The living anachronism bent over Francisco to examine his face and throat. His touch was light, though Talmon knew he was able to feel all he himself had not.

  “How bad is it?” Talmon muttered.

  “I dare not say. We must depart immediately. He needs treatment.”

  “I could find it for him here. An herb, an antido—”

  “We must not risk it.”

  With unnatural strength, Fritz drew Francisco forcibly from Talmon and flung him over his own back. Talmon stared at his own empty, trembling hands.

  “I have a horse,” he said. “He is able to carry two.”

  “You will show me.”

  Fritz followed him through the camp with a graceful and uncanny stealth. His carriage and elegance both spoke of the detestable Sartians. Talmon led him to the caves in the side of the Ravine where the horses were tethered. He scampered past makeshift stalls, every minute expecting to be confronted by a sentinel.

  Whistling softly between his teeth, Talmon freed the stallion from its rope and stall, saddled it feverishly, and led it to Fritz, who had leaned Francisco against a stone wall.

  “He will not die,” Talmon said.

  “We cannot say that for certain,” Fritz said softly. “You must not give us your own horse, friend. We will take another, and you will ride the stallion.”

  Talmon froze and turned slowly to look behind his shoulder. No: the fool was really talking to him. He stared at Fritz with a dry mouth.

  “Ride hard with him,” Talmon said, his eyes on Francisco as he handed the Sartian the halter.

  Fritz met his gaze and stood as if stupefied. “I know Alakil well,” he said, gently supporting Francisco and preparing to lift him into the saddle. “He will not forgive you this. He has forgiven nothing since his days amongst the clans of the Ashurites.”

  “My Master will have no reason to know,” Talmon spat. “The horse will be gone; I will say I lost it. Asiel will have neglected to watch you.”

  “He will find out,” Fritz said, mounting the horse behind Francisco. “And when he does, I will fear for you. Do not forget the life you might have had, son of the ancient Tarhians. You would have found peace with us.”

  Talmon pursed his lips. “No,” he said. “I am confident of our eventual victory against the child Rafen. Francisco chose a different path… I would not have him die for it—”

  He broke off and turned away, holding his head high as he stared at the shadowy shapes of the other horses in the caves. When he looked around again, the Sartian had gone with Francisco. Fritz would use kesmal to beguile the security around the camp, before taking Francisco over the Mountains.

/>   “Never listen to an Ashurite.” The words traveled to him from across the years, like an old proverb.

  The Lashki’s fury would be great. However, Talmon comforted himself. This time he had not done the deed himself. Another was saving the child he had raised as his own. He had merely provided the means.

  He hardened his face, despite his stinging eyes, and returned to the camp.

  *

  On the morning of the fourth day without food, they came to it at last. Etana did not have the strength to walk even short distances anymore, and while Sherwin could stagger on his own for some way, he lacked the energy to bear her on his back. Rafen and he had been taking turns carrying Etana, so that they could reserve their strength. Rafen had been having more seizures of late, and his weakness and the voice of Nazt kept leading him astray. Although he was fighting as hard as he could, it was difficult when he was already faint-headed. Sherwin was a great comfort. Only once did he lose his temper with him and yell something about his not having to starve with them. It was a choice; he could survive if he wanted to, and Rafen should at least try to fight Nazt. Rafen hadn’t made any sense of this whatsoever, and Sherwin had apologized soon after.

  Now they were sheltering in a shallow cave in the mountainside. Etana leaned against the damp stone wall, her eyes closed. She had come to regard death as some kind of vacation. Rafen was near her, one hand protectively on her swollen abdomen. The Ravine kept swimming before his tired eyes. He shook himself.

  “Raf,” Sherwin said from Etana’s other side, “let’s ask Zion for food. Like people ask God in my world. It will work; I know it will.”

  Cold, achy, and bloated, Rafen nodded. Hunger was less of a desire and more of an unalterable complaint with him now. He was so hungry he no longer wanted food. Nothing would satisfy him ever again. He put a shaking hand to his phoenix feather and opened his mouth.

  “I don’t know what to say,” he said.

  “Jus’ ask.”

  “Zion, please give us food,” Rafen whispered, staring out into the whirling snow before their refuge. Despite the doubt in his head, he abruptly had the feeling someone was listening.