Wet hands seized his waist from behind, lifted him into the air, and hurled him against the stone wall near the hole he had created. Rafen’s hasty shield cushioned his fall, but was shattered rapidly by the onslaught from enemy philosophers. He was briefly blinded before he absorbed the kesmal. The Lashki had moved swiftly in that moment. He was kneeling near Rafen now, as if to offer obeisance. One hand snatched Rafen’s throat, and the other pointed the copper rod at his head as he raised his flaming sword.
The flare of blue expanded in his vision, and Rafen drew in his own kesmal to keep from going unconscious. Yet the Lashki’s blow was too much…
Black descended.
Chapter Thirty-Three
In the Camp
of the First Runi
The kesmal rushed through Sherwin’s body before he could stop it. The senseless rage he was sometimes subject to possessed him and in a moment, his limbs exploded out of the gold shell and knives of brilliant ice flew in all directions. Fritz threw himself back, shielding his face and flinging his sword out in front of himself. Sherwin was on his feet in a heartbeat, the movement so fast he barely remembered making it. He held out his hands as if he were going to catch the globe of yellow Fritz had created. The wonderful cold of his own kesmal ran through his left arm, and a blue membrane whirled from his fingers and coated Fritz’s kesmal. He grabbed the vibrating ball and threw it at Fritz’s head before he realized what he had done.
Fritz staggered back and flung up a shield that disintegrated instantly as the sphere of kesmal hit it. The crazy colors flashed around Sherwin, and smoke clouded his vision momentarily. He stood back a pace, amid the debris from the broken stone wall, his head held high and his body perfectly erect. When everything cleared, Fritz was crouched in the snow, his arms covering his face. He seized his sword now and leapt up.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Fritz,” Sherwin said. He noticed dimly that his British accent had temporarily vanished, as it did when his connection with Alakil was strongest.
“I cannot believe that,” Fritz said, pointing his sword at Sherwin’s heart.
“You will regret fighting me,” Sherwin said, making no move.
“Ah. That is what Alakil said after he challenged me for the throne.”
“I haven’t challenged you for anything!” Sherwin said with desperation.
“Except my life,” Fritz said. The air writhed with five transparent, yellow snakes of light, and the ground shook. Sherwin remembered from another lifetime Fritz had always had skill with manipulating earth, as Alakil had skill with manipulating water, and Rafen had skill with manipulating fire.
With a cry of genuine fear, he gripped the ground with the toes of his boots and swung his own sword up as the serpents reached him, aiming for his eyes. When he created a feeble blue shield around himself, Fritz’s kesmal struck it repeatedly in a dozen different places, and cracks ran like veins down the watery walls.
“If I kill you in this lifetime,” Fritz said in a clear voice beyond the shield, “then Alakil will die in the past, which is my future. And I will remain alive in this day, having survived to see my child’s children.”
Sherwin’s shield shattered, and he lost his footing. The serpents flashed over his head, hit a nearby tree, and exploded into a fountain of acidic sparks. Sherwin shot on all fours toward Fritz, grabbing his ankle. He pulled with supernatural strength, and Fritz toppled, dropping his sword. He sat up again and seized Sherwin’s throat with both hands. The ground was still vibrating crazily, and Fritz tightened his grip. Sherwin choked and made to pull free.
“What are you doing?” someone shrieked from behind them both.
The ground became still as Fritz turned suddenly.
Francisco stood close behind them on quaking legs.
“You are killing each—” he began, and the rest was lost in a fit of coughing. He ducked behind his hands, doubling over. Leaping up, Fritz released Sherwin, and Sherwin gasped in air.
Fritz was by Francisco in a moment, massaging his diaphragm. Francisco resurfaced from his fingers, wiping his mouth and looking pale.
“Why?” he panted.
“Fritz was jus’ teachin’ me a lesson,” Sherwin said, getting up shakily.
“Where is Etana?” Francisco said. “Was that Rafen running up the slope?”
Sherwin felt like someone had hit him in the head, and he had remembered all the things he was supposed to remember.
“Um, yeah,” he said numbly. “We have to get to the Ravine. ’e’s at the Ravine – I’m certain ’e is.”
Fritz turned to look him in the eye. “You are not part of this mission.”
“What do you mean?” Francisco said, his voice going a little higher.
“I’m sorry,” Sherwin said, “but yer need me to get to the Ravine.”
He had now realized the only way to get there on time was to use the same Connection the Lashki had. Sherwin was certain he could access it, though at the risk of his own sanity.
“I know what you intend,” Fritz said sharply, “and we will not trust you.”
“I do not care what he intends,” Francisco said, staggering over to Sherwin. “Now is not the time for questions. Take us, Sherwin, please.”
He seized Sherwin’s arm.
“Fritz, I’m beggin’ yer to come,” Sherwin said, meeting his eyes. “We will need yer. We ’ave to work together now. I mean no harm!”
Fritz remained poised, watchful.
“You bonehead!” Francisco screamed at him. “If my brother dies, we will all perish too!”
He started to cough, then recovered himself. Fritz was crossing the disturbed snow and sheathing his sword. He would not take his eyes off Sherwin.
*
When he woke, the first things Rafen was aware of were the burning of his scalp, the thundering of his head, and the aching of his muscles.
“You see now Nazt’s power over him,” the Lashki said, holding the rapier-length copper rod to Rafen’s throat.
Rafen’s eyes flew open, and he wrenched himself away from the numbing Voices. There was a general gasp.
In the mist-crowned Ravine, the people stood around the tents and feeble campfires in droves, their eyes all fixed on Rafen. The largest contingent by far was the Ashurites, and barring a few exceptions, they were all men: shabby, long-haired, and long-limbed men with dreadlocks, some wearing nothing but loincloths.
The silence was profound. Behind him, the Lashki’s grip tightened on Rafen’s hair, and he hissed.
“So the Fourth Runi awakes,” he said. “I think you will need some of Asiel’s tuition on submission, Rafen.”
Asiel put his long hands together, a wide smile on his face.
Rafen clenched his teeth, thinking quickly. The Lashki could have killed him. Why hadn’t he? Since the combats he had had with Rafen in the last few years, he seemed no longer to trust himself. It didn’t matter. Rafen had to get out of here; he wasn’t going to be able to kill the Lashki without Fritz and some men. He tried to ignore the swarms of people surrounding him.
“…short of killing him, naturally,” the Lashki was saying scornfully to the circle of people around him.
Rafen was breathing quickly, staring around himself for a sword he could grab. He had to be careful now. One false move and he was dead, and Nazt had won.
“Two hours from now, we will officially welcome the Fourth Runi into our midst and show him Nazt’s hospitality. And then Nazt will see him, and he will see no more.”
The roaring in Rafen’s ears was a combination of Nazt’s cheering and the bellow of those around him. Rows and rows of faces screamed their approval, some maniacally happy and others twisted with anticipation. Something snapped in Rafen, and he threw himself forward against the Lashki’s grip, breaking free and leaving a handful of hair in the rotting fingers. He made to fling his left arm out and perform kesmal, but realized his wrists were somehow knotted together behind his back. He gave an involuntary cry and tried violently to brea
k his bonds. A current rushed through his arms and torso, burning him with an icy grip. He bit back a yell.
Everyone was just watching. The Lashki said quietly from behind, “They are ropes of my creation, Rafen. Etana had the privilege of experiencing them earlier. Do not worry. I will find her for you, once we have given you to Nazt.”
Rafen made another savage attempt to break the ropes, focusing on performing kesmal. The same spasm seared through him, and the cold paralyzed the flames in his veins. He seized up momentarily.
Not this again! The Lashki had once used the cold of his kesmal to stop Rafen attacking him, shortly before inflicting the Soul Breaker’s Curse on him. Horror rolled over Rafen.
The Lashki grabbed him by the back of the neck and threw him forward into Asiel’s arms. At the philosopher’s touch, Rafen recoiled, kicking him across the shins. Asiel staggered backward, his face darkening as he whipped his nhanya out again.
“Come, Rafen,” the Lashki said through his teeth from behind. He pressed the tip of the copper rod to the back of Rafen’s head and gave it a twist. Rafen clenched his teeth, fighting back vomit; it felt like his head was going to explode.
“We will take care of him, Master,” Asiel said, his hand closing on Rafen’s throat.
He thrust Rafen forward and propelled him along with his nhanya blade, his white-blue eyes alight with feverish excitement. A train of philosophers followed him to a stone space near a long chain of tents. Rafen’s breathing accelerated as he paused there, and the philosophers fanned out around him. He lunged toward a small gap in the circle, and the flat of Asiel’s blade hit him in the temple. His sight darkened briefly, and he reeled, his head already thumping from the Lashki knocking him out earlier. In his mind, he saw the churning black bodies that were going to claim everything. His heart swelled with terror. How could the Phoenix let this happen to him? Wildly attempting kesmal again, he was faced with the same results: a burst of cold, killing any warmth in his veins, and violent spasms through his muscles.
Asiel tossed his nhanya to a thickset bald man near him and walked right up to Rafen, pushing his face into his. Then slowly and deliberately, he bit Rafen’s nose so hard that Rafen felt it burn. Asiel’s breath smelled heavily of onion.
Rafen did nothing. There was no point. They were all roaring with laughter, as if this was somehow clever. It reminded him of “playing” in Tarhia, when he had been a slave.
Asiel was sniggering uncontrollably as he stared at Rafen. Then he hooked his foot behind Rafen’s ankle and jerked it. As Rafen toppled, he struggled instinctively to stop himself with his hands, and pain blinded him. Asiel leered over Rafen for a second before saying, “Why did you fall over, Rafen? Get up.”
A dozen stars burst before Rafen’s eyes after Asiel swung his boot into his temple. He did it again, and Rafen felt like he had experienced an earthquake. He forced himself to rise. It was nearly impossible with his hands bound, and all his muscles screamed in protest. The laughter was an atmosphere now, a kind of background music. Asiel gave a twisted smile, his fist filling Rafen’s vision. Rafen dodged just in time and staggered sideways. The circle visibly closed in on him. Someone shoved him into Asiel’s path, and this time the fist hit him squarely between his eyebrows. He was on his back again, and at least ten feet swung into him in different places, men and the occasional woman alike screeching, “Get up, get up! Rafen, get up!”
Rafen forced himself to rise again, though he scarcely knew why. A trickle of blood dropped past his eye. His head felt like a crushed raisin. He kicked wildly at anyone and everyone, trying to headbutt his way out of the crowd.
From behind, Asiel seized his hair and pulled him back violently. The searing in Rafen’s scalp brought water to his eyes. Asiel flung his arm around to stuff a handful of Rafen’s own hair into his mouth. Rafen choked and spat it out. The bodies around him were crushing him. It was like being back in the Den Nyolam. A towering, tattooed man lifted him up and shook him until his teeth rattled in his head. He crashed him down so that his knees buckled and spun him around over and over again, as if it were some absurd children’s game. Then he shoved Rafen forward, and Rafen reeled into the first Ashurite he saw.
It went on and on, and Rafen found eventually he was able to block it out. It was swirling movement and sound and impact that at last, mercifully, gave way to a darkness punctuated by throbbing. He went down, dimly thinking about how everyone else was finding this hilarious and how he himself was missing out on the big joke. As he fell, he realized with urgency that he had to get up, but it was too late. Feet were already all over him, trampling him. Asiel was jumping up and down as if he had lost his mind…
*
He came to lying on the cold, mossy stone ground with a number of shadows standing over him.
“It hasn’t quite finished him,” Asiel sneered.
“I told you to stop,” Annette’s low voice replied.
“I was merely adding to the festivity. Do not worry yourself, Annette. I fixed any broken bones with kesmal. He’s merely bruised.”
Rafen’s tongue was so thick in his mouth that he felt like he couldn’t breathe. He realized he must have bitten it when everyone was striking him. His headache rendered everything blurry apart from the spirits that were speaking to him even now, encouraging him to rest. He forced himself to look the lie in the face. He was the Fourth Runi; he had to fight.
Someone grabbed him, and at the abrupt movement, the inside of Rafen’s head swilled like the contents of a bucket of slop. Asiel’s indistinct visage appeared before him.
“I think he will be ready for Nazt’s welcome tonight. He’ll fit right in, Annette. He’s never looked blacker.”
Asiel threw his head back and laughed. Rafen supposed he was referring to his bruises. At least Etana wasn’t here. She was safe. Yet for how long?
The Lashki planned to give Rafen to Nazt very shortly, and Rafen knew he had limited time. He made a move, sitting up and rolling onto his legs with difficulty. The odd twitches of his arms filled his torso with icy cold, numbing any kesmal he tried to perform. He made to rise.
Asiel had left, and now Annette was watching him with curiosity.
“Come, Rafen,” she said softly, like a mother coaxing her child. “Our Master awaits.”
She gripped his shoulder. While he remembered her strength from that moment on the cliff before Nazt, it was still unexpected now. She pulled him up bodily from the ground, and he found himself on his feet, trembling, hunched. The pain in his head was blinding him. He turned as quickly as he could, his dim eyes looking wildly for a way out of the camp. Glimpsing the now empty Naztwai pen near the little rock passage he had first appeared in, he lurched toward it at a run. His foot hit a stone, and he fell heavily, his swollen face hitting the ground first. He attempted to get up again, and spasms swept through his body from the ropes binding his hands. Annette rolled him over, seized his shoulder, and pulled him up. He jerked away violently. Her grip tightened, and she shoved a knife to his throat with her other hand.
“Do not make it harder for yourself,” she hissed, thrusting him before her and shifting the knife to the back of his neck.
When she shoved him, he stumbled forward and tried to turn around again. Yet now he was amid people. They were pushing him as well, forcing him toward his final destination. His arms were still tied, and though he tried to spin around and stagger back out of the crowd, he couldn’t. There were hundreds, thousands on the Ravine floor.
Zion, don’t let me be trapped, please! he thought frantically.
The darkness hadn’t merely been his vision, but neither was it night. It seemed the Lashki and his philosophers had managed to create a supernatural eclipse in the Ravine for their moment of triumph. The silence was only broken by collective breathing. Annette led him into a circular space amid the people, where the Lashki stood with his copper rod at his side. He was staring at something that even Rafen, with his Spirit Awareness, could not see.
At Rafen�
��s drunken footsteps, he turned, leering. Still, Rafen could sense his nervousness. It was in his rasping breath as Annette brought Rafen directly before him and then turned to take a prominent place in the crowd’s front rows. And now, at last, Rafen had space to turn. However, if he ran, it would all be over very quickly. He remained, panting dryly, his face alive with hatred. The Lashki stooped in mock politeness so that his head was on a level with Rafen’s. The crowd’s laughter filled the frigid night.
“Shorter still tonight, Rafen?” the Lashki said. He lifted the copper rod fractionally. Though the voices of Nazt screamed in Rafen’s head, he remained cold toward them. The image of his wife, bound with the Lashki’s kesmal, filled his mind. It was the symbol of Rafen’s responsibility.
“Bow, Rafen,” the Lashki said.
Nazt told him the importance of the Lashki, of this supreme body, this corpse-like figure that had defied death, the representative of the Power in the East.
Rafen reeled closer and spat at the decaying face.
The Lashki’s hand closed on Rafen’s neck and jerked him forward. When Rafen threw himself back against the Lashki’s grip, the Lashki only tightened it and wrenched him closer so that their noses touched.
“Do you still resist, fool?” he said in a deadly voice. Then his grasp relaxed somewhat and he said soothingly, “The path to progress is long and difficult, Rafen, but you have come closer than you ever have to achieving the highest of all achievements. Nazt will never desert you.”
The Fourth Runi (The Fledgling Account Book 4) Page 32
