Under the Crimson Sun (the abyssal plague)

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  The first swipe, sadly, barely made it through the anakore’s skin, and it wasn’t even bleeding very much.

  In the flickering torchlight, Gan couldn’t really see the creature’s tiny eyes, but its spinal ridge and flat ears stood out in the light.

  Gan couldn’t move his arms, but his legs were completely free, so he wrapped his legs around the anakore’s torso and locked his ankles. It didn’t do too much to immobilize the anakore in and of itself, but an anakore’s spinal ridges weren’t just decorative: they had cilia on the ends that enabled the anakore to detect movement against the shifting sands. The ridges were there to protect the ultra-sensitive cilia, but they were still exposed on top, which meant that Gan’s legs clamping down on them caused the anakore distress.

  With a howl, the anakore thrashed between Gan’s knees, and its grip on Gan’s shoulders loosened a bit.

  That was enough for Gan to yank his right arm loose and stab the anakore in the left bicep.

  The creature’s tough skin meant it wasn’t much more than a flesh wound, but it distracted the anakore enough that Gan was able to flip the creature over with his interlocked legs, slamming it into the ground to Gan’s left.

  Such a move would have been more effective on solid ground, but at least it gave Gan the opportunity to get to his feet. He held his bone knife out, taking the anakore’s measure.

  As he studied the creature, he saw that the anakore was a bit on the skinny side. Usually when you found an anakore alone, it had gotten lost from its tribe, and this one had apparently been lost for a while.

  That meant it was desperate and wouldn’t go down easily.

  Anakores also had long arms and claws, so he was better off with a weapon that had a longer reach. He pulled out Fehrd’s father’s staff, hoping that the one lesson he took from Fehrd would take.

  He swung the staff toward the anakore’s head, not actually coming anywhere near it. The anakore snarled and backed off a step, then lunged. Gan swung desperately again, but it went under the anakore’s arm. Gan felt the wind of the anakore’s claws as they just missed raking his face, and it was his turn to back up-and stumble onto his rear end in the sand.

  The anakore leaped onto him once again, slicing at Gan with his claws. Pain ripped through his shoulder as the anakore drew blood.

  Through the haze of agony, Gan registered that the anakore had actually pinned his legs, so he wouldn’t be able to use the same move as before.

  But he had the staff, which he wrapped around the anakore’s back, grabbed it from the other end, and then rubbed it up and down the spinal ridges.

  That did more than discomfit the anakore, and it screamed to the night sky.

  And then it slashed at Gan’s face. Salty blood seeped into his mouth from the fresh cuts in his cheek. Had the anakore struck an inch higher, Gan would have lost his one remaining eye.

  Letting go of the staff with his right hand, he brought it away from the creature’s back and thrust it up into the anakore’s belly. While he did that, he once again grabbed his bone knife with his right hand and tried to make an upward thrust.

  Neither really did much harm to the anakore, but it did once again get the thing off him.

  Trying to recall the grip Fehrd taught him, Gan raised the staff over his head and struck straight downward, at the last second recalling that he should use the palm of his right hand to help drive the staff with more force.

  To his utter shock, the anakore didn’t parry the strike.

  After a second, he realized why, as it hit the creature on its bony head to absolutely no obvious ill effect. The impact of bone striking bone shuddered through Gan’s arms, and almost forced him to drop the staff.

  It was starting to get brighter. That didn’t make sense to Gan, as dawn wouldn’t come for hours.

  “Having a little trouble?”

  Gan whirled around to see Rol holding one of the torches-which explained the brighter light.

  “No, no, doing just fine,” Gan said. “Feel free to lounge about and watch it claw me to pieces.”

  “I would, but I’d honestly prefer to get some sleep.” Rol swung the torch at the anakore. It backed off, whimpering. Anakores’ biggest weakness was bright light.

  Rol swung it a few more times, laughing, then leaped straight at the anakore.

  For a moment, Gan couldn’t believe his eye. It was one thing to get into a grappling match with a human, elf, dwarf, or mul-but an anakore? That was suicide. Gan’s own techniques only worked temporarily because of the sensitivity of the top of the spinal ridges, and all that did was keep him from getting killed in the first two seconds of the fight.

  Rol and the anakore rolled around on the sand for a few turns, taking them farther away from Gan-and from the torch, which Rol had dropped.

  Gan bent down to pick up the torch. As he did so, blood dripped onto the sand and the torch itself from the wounds in his cheek and shoulder. He knew that he’d need to tend to those soon-but his first priority was Rol. The idiot had saved Gan’s hide, and Gan needed to return that favor.

  They were a team, after all. That was what they did.

  Howling loudly enough that Gan was amazed it hadn’t attracted the attention of the entire caravan, the anakore managed to pin Rol the same way it had pinned Gan.

  But unlike before, it had two opponents. Gan shoved the fiery end of the torch into the anakore’s face, causing it to recoil.

  That distracted it long enough for Rol to reach up, grab the anakore’s head at each flat ear, and then twist it far enough that its neck snapped with a crack that echoed into the night.

  Rol then threw the anakore’s corpse off to the side and got to his feet.

  Gan just stared at him.

  “Something wrong? Besides the fact that you’re covered in blood?”

  “How did you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  Pointing at the anakore, Gan said, “That! I’ve seen muls who couldn’t break an anakore’s neck like that.”

  Rol just shrugged. “It was pretty skinny-probably weak. I don’t think it’s been with its tribe for a long time.”

  Gan nodded, having come to a similar conclusion. “Yeah, but still-”

  “You’re welcome, by the way.”

  “Uh, yeah, thanks.” Gan swallowed and tasted more blood. “I need to get these wounds tended to.”

  “Are you all right?”

  Gan turned to see Tirana running up to the pair of them. Several other people from the slaver’s caravan were behind her, approaching more cautiously.

  “It’s all right,” Rol said. “Nothing to be concerned about.”

  One of the slaver’s people asked, “Was that a braxat?”

  “No,” said another, “I think it was a gith.”

  “Don’t be an ass, that was definitely an anakore.”

  “That doesn’t look anything like an anakore.”

  Rol bellowed, “It’s dead, is what it is. That’s all that matters. Look, we took care of it. That’s what we’re here for. All of you, please, go back to sleep.”

  Tirana, though, wasn’t having any of that. The head of the slavers wasn’t either, and the two of them approached Gan and Rol.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Rol gave her that annoying smile of his that he always used whenever he was chatting up a woman. “I’m fine, Tirana, really.”

  “I’m kind of bleeding a little,” Gan said. With the adrenaline from the fight wearing off, his knees were starting to wobble, and he feared he was about to fall over.

  Tirana turned as if noticing Gan for the first time, a look Gan was, frankly, used to from women Rol was flirting with. “Oh, dear, that looks horrible. You need to come back with me, I’ll patch you right up.”

  “My daughter’s right,” the head slaver said.

  Now Gan shot Rol a look. Why did it not surprise him that Tirana was the slaver’s daughter?

  The slaver continued: “That was pretty damned brave, the
re, what you two did. That was an anakore, yeah?”

  Gan nodded, and instantly regretted it, as the action made his head swim.

  The next thing he knew, the slaver was holding him upright-which was good, as Gan no longer felt at all confident in his legs’ ability to do so. The man had to be at least in his fifties with bony arms and breath that came straight from the sewers of Under-Tyr, and the fact that Gan needed his help did more to bespeak his weakened condition than the blood that continued to seep from his shoulder and cheek.

  “I’ll stay on patrol,” Rol said. “That anakore looked like he was alone, and there aren’t any other signs of anything, but it’s better to be safe.”

  “That ain’t necessary,” the slaver said. “Whyn’t you come back to our carriage, let us get you a drink for your troubles?”

  “Thanks, but no. Take care of him, though, will you? I still have a few uses for him.”

  Gan couldn’t even work up mock outrage at Rol’s comment. Besides, if Rol was still abusing him, that meant that his wounds weren’t all that serious. Which, of course, they weren’t. This was a normal comedown from a fight, particularly one with a lot of bleeding. It wasn’t the first time this had happened, and Gan was sure it wouldn’t be the last.

  Tirana got on the other side of Gan from her father, and the pair of them each supported Gan under his arms. However, Tirana was calling back to Rol as they guided Gan toward the carriage. “I’ll be back in a little bit with a drink for you, at least. It’s a draft my uncle developed, it’ll keep you awake.”

  “Thank you, Tirana, that’s very kind.” Rol’s voice grew distant as they made their way toward the caravan.

  “Let me guess, you use that draft to pep up the slaves before they go into the arena?” Gan’s own words sounded slurred-he definitely needed to get the bleeding stopped soon.

  “Somethin’ like that, yeah,” the slaver said. “Don’t you worry none, Tirana and me, we’ll fix you right up.”

  Gan did not nod, having learned his lesson from the last time. He did, however, hope that this draft worked. Making Rol take the entire night to guard the caravan was going to take a lot out of him …

  The red sun was just starting to peek over the eastern sand dunes when Yarro awakened. The rest of his family was still asleep-they had been awakened twice in the middle of the night, and so slept past sunup. But Yarro always rose when the sun did. He felt that if he did not start when the day did, then the day was incomplete.

  Yarro couldn’t bring himself to blame his family for sleeping in a bit-though he fully intended to, at the very least, castigate his son-in-law for waking late. But between that anakore that attacked and the slavers deciding all of a sudden to leave in the middle of the night-and making a horrible racket as they did so-nobody in the caravan got a good night’s sleep.

  Still, they needed to get a move on. That was three attacks on the caravan since they went out, and Yarro was starting to understand why caravan masters charged so much for their services.

  He really hoped that the next couple of days of the trip would go more smoothly. Luckily, they had rid themselves of the slaver and still had their two new bodyguards.

  Yarro didn’t really understand those two. If Storvis and Mandred grieved for their comrade, they didn’t really show it. In fact, based on how they deflected any attempt to even mention the man, Yarro wondered if they had even liked him all that much.

  He stepped out of the tent, looking at the large gap in the gathered carriages where the slaver had been. If nothing else, not having them around would allow them to move faster, since it was all canvas carriages that were left.

  Looking around, he couldn’t spot either Storvis or Mandred. The former, he knew, had been injured by the anakore, and it was possible that Mandred was sleeping somewhere.

  He did see T’Kari, the warrior who was on her way to Raam to meet up with her ranger lover. She was traveling with a group of bards, who were contracted to do work for one of the Nawab-caste families. She was practicing some physical moves with a certain elegance. Yarro watched as she kicked and punched and blocked-and then stumbled.

  “Fripping sand,” she muttered.

  Since she was pausing, Yarro took advantage to speak to her. “T’Kari, have you seen Mandred or Storvis?”

  “Who?”

  “The bodyguards?”

  T’Kari sneered, “What, the thugs? Couldn’t even handle an anakore.”

  Yarro said nothing, preferring to remain civil, but he fumed over her criticism, since he’d asked her to protect the caravan, but she refused unless Yarro paid a price he could not afford.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “didn’t you hear? They left with the slavers.”

  “What?” Yarro blinked a few times. “Why did they do that?”

  Shrugging, T’Kari said, “That’s what Tirana told me. When Calbit decided to head out in the middle of the night, Tirana told me that the thugs were going with them. I guess they figured they could squeeze more out of them-or maybe they thought Urik was a better destination.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Yarro said. “Storvis told me he was going to meet his sister. They even made sure to have their names on the messenger’s roster.”

  “You’re assuming he told you the truth,” T’Kari said with another sneer.

  Then she went back to her exercises.

  With a sigh, Yarro turned to wake his family up. He needed to get everyone started sooner if they were to be denied their protection.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Feena Storvis said as she stood near the caravan station outside Raam.

  Next to her, Zabaj gripped her small hand in his large one and said, “So you say.”

  “Don’t patronize me, please, Zabaj?” Feena glowered up at her lover. “I can feel that something bad happened to Gan.”

  The caravan station was a shed in front of a clearing just outside the city-state’s main border. Caravan masters held offices there, and the large space was handy for loading and unloading carriages. According to the posted bulletin from a messenger, a large caravan with someone named Yarro listed as the master was coming in. Both Feena’s brother Gan and his friend and partner Rol were on the list of travelers. It was the only caravan due in that day, and so the space was clear, with only a few others like Feena and Zabaj, waiting for the caravan to arrive. A few merchants were selling food and drink, and Feena was seriously considering the latter, as the red sun was beating down on them. Sweat started to drip into her eyes despite a linen head wrap around her curly blond locks.

  Zabaj looked down at her. “Is this the Way, or sisterly worry?”

  “Both.” Feena let out a long breath and used her free hand to adjust her head wrap. “Besides, did you notice? Fehrd wasn’t on the list of travelers.”

  With a shrug, Zabaj said, “Maybe Fehrd got fed up with those two idiots and left ’em.”

  Feena gently smacked the mul on his huge arm. “Stop that-my brother’s not an idiot, and Rol’s smarter than both of them.”

  “Not so’s you’d notice,” Zabaj muttered.

  That got Zabaj another smack, which prompted him to smile down at her with his sharpened teeth. He’d had them filed down to points during his time in the arena in Tyr, before Komir and Karalith managed to free him as part of a game they were running on the arena trainer.

  Since then, he’d worked for the Serthlara Emporium as their strongman. He enjoyed using his half-breed might for more practical purposes.

  When Feena had first met Zabaj, she’d assumed him to be just another arena thug with what little brains he had having been punched to mulch. His taciturn manner did nothing to change that feeling-but she also was able to sense something more to him.

  Eventually, she was able to see the thoughtfulness behind his blunt, laconic manner.

  It was all just impressions. Feena’s mind-magic was unfocused and not always reliable, but she generally trusted her instincts. She often w
ondered how her life would have been different if she had been able to properly study the Way, but such options were not available to one of her station.

  However, she could trust what she felt more often than not-including Zabaj’s personality. Plus, she liked the way he smelled. He had a pleasant musk about him-one that caused many people to walk in the other direction, but which she found oddly enticing. And it intensified when he got sweaty.

  Zabaj scratched his wide forehead with his free hand. His head was bald everywhere except right on the crown-there, he had grown his dark hair out and tied it into a topknot.

  Then he squinted and pointed toward the wastes with his free hand. “I think that might be them.” Tiny dots on the horizon seemed to be coalescing into actual carriages and mounts as they grew larger.

  Feena bit her lower lip. That close, she should have been able to feel Gan’s presence. But she felt nothing of him at all.

  About twenty minutes later, a huge caravan of sand-caked canvas carriages that were carried by just-as-sand-caked crodlus ambled into the receiving area. Staff immediately started splashing the crodlus with buckets of water, and the people on the carriages were greeted by those who were waiting for them.

  Feena didn’t see Gan or Rol-or, for that matter, Fehrd. More to the point, though, she still didn’t sense Gan.

  Zabaj looked down at her with his big green eyes. “Maybe he’s sleeping or something. Or unconscious. He might’ve been hurt.”

  “I hope so,” was all Feena would say, and even that was agonizing. The only way for Gan to be so close and Feena not sense him would be if he was so badly hurt as to be near death.

  Either option didn’t bear thinking about.

  After nearly half an hour of not seeing any of them, Zabaj let out a snort. “Let’s talk to somebody.”

  Noticing a man with his hair in dark ringlets who was talking to the area supervisor, Feena said, “That’s probably the caravan master.”

  The pair of them walked over, still hand in hand, and waited a respectful distance from the conversation until it ended. Once the supervisor broke off to take care of some other business, Feena approached the man in the ringlets.