She sighed at that thought as she slipped through the entryway to Sudar’s bedroom, freeing her swords from their sheaths. Eroghast had been right: She would never know peace for her very essence screamed for war, her blood shrieking in her veins as she crept closer to the sleeping form beneath the furs. She raised Patnja and plunged it toward the wild mass of hair splayed across the pillow.
The furs erupted and steel clashed against steel, her blow deflected.
Shae leapt back, eyes wide.
From the bed, Sudar emerged, holding a sword, its point aimed her way. “Did you truly think it would be so easy to slay me?” he asked, letting out a phlegmy chuckle.
“I had hoped.” Shae met the warlord’s gaze and wondered how he had known she was there.
He drew a step closer, taking her measure as she did his.
He wore the loose pants popular with the desert reivers, their overlapping seams keeping the sand at bay while allowing ease of movement. Beyond that, he wore nothing more than an amused grin. His long hair cascaded down bare, tanned shoulders, muscles coiled and ready to spring. If his stance was any indication, he was every bit the warrior he claimed.
“Who is it that wants me dead this time?” His grin widened. “I would know whose head I need to mount upon my trophy wall once I’ve killed you.”
Shae shook her head, declining to answer. She raised her blades and started forward.
Sudar’s eyes narrowed, his gaze locked upon her swords. “Your blades are sharded?”
Again, Shae said nothing, lunging forward and slashing high with Bol and thrusting low with Patnja. Sudar flowed like water, sidestepping the first blow and parrying the second, spinning around so he stood behind her. Shae spun as well, and Sudar drew back a step, chuckling once more. His smugness filled her cheeks with fire. She advanced again.
“You’ll have to do better than that, assassin,” he said. “You’re not the only one in possession of a moonshard.” He tapped his bare chest, just below his heart.
Shae froze.
“Ah, you hadn’t known that, I see.” He shook his head. “Your employer’s obviously a fool or he sent you to die. I wonder which it is. Do you?”
Either is likely, Shae thought, but Sudar’s revelation changed nothing. Aruur’s life depended on her success. Sudar had to die.
She darted forward, feinting at his chest in hopes to draw him out. But it was as if she battled in mud. The warlord swayed and met her true strike, deflecting it from his groin, then he knocked aside Patnja as she followed up. She growled and launched another attack but Sudar was faster. Her blade cleaved air but his bit flesh.
Shae hissed and leapt back, fighting the urge examine the wound at her hip. She kept her eyes locked on Sudar as he held his blade up for her inspection, the steel colored red with her blood.
“First blood to me,” he said. “How fortuitous.”
Shae snarled and went after him again, blades whirling before her. Sudar parried and retreated, driven back by the onslaught. Fast as he might be, the warlord only had one blade to defend against two. She forced him out into the hall. He bounced off the wall and shifted, backing toward the stairwell. Sudar only laughed as she grazed his forearm. He lashed out in return, catching Shae across her chest. She growled at feeling his steel etch a searing line across her skin. The wound, shallow as it was, drew her up short, and Sudar took advantage, barreling down the steps to put distance between them.
“Come and join me,” he called out from below, his voice echoing up the stairwell. “Soon you’ll be just another attraction for the peasants to ogle, one more story for me to tell.”
Shae started down the stairs at a creep. She would not let the warlord goad her. Crouched low, she took each step slowly, deliberately, her eyes surveying the path ahead. She reached the bottom without incident and stepped into the wide hall of the museum where an even deeper darkness greeted her. The chitter of insects sounded all around her and, though she’d visited the museum numerous times, she struggled to find her bearings in the absolute blackness that blanketed it now. She saw only shadows.
Patnja tugged at her wrist and she surrendered to the feeling, raising her sword just in time to parry a blow aimed for her head. The warlord’s toothy grin emerged from the darkness for just an instant. She lashed out with Bol and forced his retreat. His laughter rang out a moment later, and Shae heard a loud clunk and moved toward the sound. She spied Sudar’s shadowy figure dart away and she gave chase. A sharp pain at her ankle brought her to a sudden halt. A second stinging pain savaged her heel. Shae raised her foot and stomped down and something crunched beneath her boot. Before she could see what had bitten her, she felt the brush of insectile legs climbing her calf. She swatted the thing aside with Bol and leapt backwards. Only then did she realize Sudar had broken open one of the cages. The floor swarmed with dûpişk—scorpions—a sea of snapping pincers and poised stingers. Already she could feel the creatures’ poison igniting the blood in her veins. Warmth washed over her.
Shae swayed and stumbled into the case nearest her, her elbow shattering the glass that protected the three-fanged tiger. Shards rained down around her and she groaned, muffling her voice against the back of her hand. She reached into the cage for support, her knuckles grazing the stitching at the tiger’s belly, which held the stuffed creature’s innards in place.
“Unpleasant, isn’t it?” Sudar asked from somewhere in the darkness. “My brethren can be quite cruel.”
Shae shrugged off the shards of glass that clung to her shoulders, letting them crash to the floor below. A pained grunt slipped loose from her lips as another of the dûpişk stung her foot. She crushed it under her heel and kicked it away.
“That was most unkind of you.” The warlord’s dark form oozed into view, just a few short paces from her. His blade led the way. “It’s one thing to try and kill me, but it’s something else entirely to come into my home and harm my brothers and damage my trophies.” He shook his head. “Now tell me who sent you so I can punish them once I’m done with you.”
Shae slumped against the cage, doing her best to put distance between her and the warlord. The tiger toppled from its perch and fell over her left shoulder, pinning her in place. Its permanent snarl glared at Sudar as he approached.
She shook her head. “You’ll get nothing from me.” She held Patnja toward him in a trembling hand.
Sudar shrugged, inching closer. “Oh, you’ll tell me, assassin, fear not. It’s only a matter of time.” He lashed out and knocked Patnja aside, the sword clattering away into the darkness. He laughed and leaned in so they were face to face. “Save yourself some agony and tell me who your master is. Speak now and I will offer mercy.”
Shae sighed and nodded. “My master is...”
Bol burst from the tiger’s mouth and speared the warlord through the eye.
“Death,” she finished.
Sudar stiffened, his grin withering at his lips. Shae yanked her blade free and the warlord slumped to the floor. She pulled her arm free of the tiger’s stuffed guts and pushed the trophy aside, rising to her feet over Sudar’s corpse.
“You are not the only child of the desert,” she told it, reaching down and picking up one of the dûpişk. It lashed out and stung her palm and Shae just laughed, its venom bubbling in the wound. She crushed the creature in her fist and tossed the gooey mess aside. “No one survives the Slough Marches without becoming immune to dûpişk poison.”
She stared at the creatures as they clambered over Sudar’s body, reminded of the moonshard buried in his chest, such being the custom of the shard-bearers. Shae knelt, brushing the dûpişk aside to bare his torso and neck. She took her blade to his throat, cleaving through the spine to free his head. Then she went after the shard. If Aruur’s freedom could be bought with Sudar’s head, she wondered what could be had in exchange for the moonshard. A smile formed as an idea came to mind.
Shae rose, the warlord’s blood dripping from her ha
nds, her prizes clasped tight as she made her way toward the stairs. The skitters of Sudar’s exhibits sounded in the background, loud in the stillness of the museum, their whispers seeing her off.
* * *
Belan ushered her inside the Butkada Saimoon, stepping to the side to avoid her as she strode toward the dais without a word to the maharat.
Eroghast stood atop the stairs, watching her approach. His gaze drifted to the heavy bag she carried. “Is that him?” he asked, rubbing his hands together.
“It is,” Shae answered, coming to a stop at the base of the stairs. She remained there, not bothering to offer the head to Eroghast.
“Come now, little storm, must you be so difficult?”
“Show me Aruur first. Show me she’s okay.”
“Such dramatics, child.” Eroghast sighed and waved to the maharat, who had resumed his place at Eroghast’s side.
The priest went over to a door set in the wall behind the altar and opened it a crack. Shae caught a flicker of Aruur before she was pulled back out of sight.
“There, you’ve seen her. Now give me Valare Sudar’s head or I’ll have my men take her away.”
Shae nodded and tossed the sack to Eroghast. He caught it with a grunt, a grin breaking out across his lips. He fumbled with the tie and managed to get the bag open, peeling back the edges so he could see inside. A low, rumbling laugh spilled loose at seeing what was inside. He reached in and grabbed the head by its hair, pulling it free of the sack so he could examine it. His brows rose at seeing the moonshard that filled its ruined eye.
“What is this?”
“My freedom,” Shae told him. “The head for Aruur and the shard for me. Even trade for our release.”
Eroghast chuckled and pulled the shard out, crystalline reflections dancing across his face in the candlelight. He stared at it for a few moments before pulling his gaze away and returning his attention to Shae.
“You know I can’t let you go, child. I applaud your efforts, but you are mine until Araqh parts us. You must understand my position.”
She exhaled slowly. “I do,” she said, “as you must understand mine.”
Eroghast’s eyes narrowed as something moved within Sudar’s gaping socket. The old man shrieked and went to release the head just as something dark darted across his hand, trailing a string of red in its wake. Skin sizzled at its touch and Eroghast shrieked, unable to release his gory prize, his fingers entangled in the warlord’s hair.
From the wreckage of Sudar’s eye, dozens of vatra pauk spilled forth, spewing their acidic strands as they clambered over Eroghast. The temple filled with the stench of charred flesh and the thief lord crumpled into a heap, screeching as the fire spiders spun their web, strands crisscrossing his shuddering body.
The maharat fled without a backward glance, leaving the door behind the altar open.
“Aruur, to me!” Shae shouted.
She heard the clatter of chains, followed by low, guttural screams. There was a heavy thump somewhere beyond the door, and then Aruur burst through, charging across the altar. Warmth flooded her veins as she saw, and Shae stepped forward as Aruur took the stairs at a run. Unable to stop her momentum, Aruur skidded and flew over the stairs, right into Shae’s waiting arms.
“That’s my girl,” Shae whispered as she buried her face in Aruur’s neck as she hugged her tight to her breasts.
Eroghast’s screams fading into wet gurgles, Shae knew they had to flee. She set the dog on the floor and slapped Aruur lightly on the ass.
“Come on, girl. Let’s go.”
Aruur padded across the carpet on all fours, letting loose a parting howl as the pair fled the temple.
“Arrrrruuuuuuuuurrrrrrrr!”
The Game
- World of Aradane -
Matthew Ward
Everything’s a game. Life. Death. War. Love. Ambition. Oh, especially ambition. It is the master that rules us all. It drives every desire—for what is desire but the longing for something we do not have? The clever, it ushers to new peaks, to prosperity and satisfaction without end. The foolish? Well, better an ambitious fool than a lazy one. After all, the ambitious ones never last. But the game is never a foregone conclusion. Cleverness and foolishness are not absolutes. Recognising which guides you at any given moment, whether your choices lead to victory or defeat? That’s the tricky part. Which guides me? Time will tell.
There’s a stone wall at my back. My hands are hitched high above my head. By rope, rather than chain. My blindfold’s imperfect, less so the darkness in this dank place. Clammy air tells me I’m underground, the tang of a sunken shoreline suggests the sea is nearby. Interesting, but hardly conclusive. The Tressian promontory is a warren of sewers, caves, smuggler’s tunnels—and a goodly number of crypts besides. I could be in any of them.
A gruff voice sounds. “Who’s there? Answer me!”
Privileged tone, accustomed to instant obedience, if not respect. I’ve only met its owner a handful of times, but once would be enough. It’s always enough if you know how the game is played. After all, if you’re not familiar with the pieces, how can you expect to win?
“Answer me, damn your eyes!”
“Calm yourself, captain,” I sigh. “I’m in no position to harm you. It appears we share a predicament.”
“Solomon? I might have bloody well known.”
There aren’t many in the city who’d address me so disrespectfully. Most are…wary…of earning my disfavour. Not so ex-General Quintus, late of the republic’s army. Probably, he feels he has nothing to lose, not after that disaster on the border—the one most are too polite to mention in Quintus’s presence. For all their high-minded talk, my fellow councillors turn on their darlings like a pack of starving hounds, when the hunger is there. Especially when their own reputations are at stake. It’s useful, most of the time. If only they hadn’t followed the demotion by instating Quintus as captain of the city guard. I’d hoped for someone more tractable. More…flexible. Then again, a man can do worse than be judged by the quality of his enemies. And much as it pains us both, we share a passion.
“I assure you, captain, I’m as much in the dark as you are.”
“Very bloody funny, my lord.” As ever, Quintus laces the honorific with disdain.
The still air carries a chorus of small, whispering creaks. It’s easy to picture Quintus’s heavyset bulk straining against his bonds, his impassive grey eyes growing gradually less so as it becomes clear the knots won’t budge.
Though I’m at pains not to show it, Quintus’s presence worries me. It’s unexpected, and the unexpected is usually the undesired. It means pieces are moving in ways I haven’t foreseen. It might be nothing. Just a stray gambit from an unready opponent. Or it could be that I’ve been outplayed, that my ambition has exceeded my ability at last. The future promises to be very interesting, and possibly very brief.
“I didn’t expect to find you here, captain.”
A growl. “So you know where we are?”
I waste a thin smile he can’t possibly see. “I wouldn’t trouble you with a guess.”
“But you know who holds us?”
I laugh under my breath. “That would depend entirely on who’s in charge, wouldn’t you say?”
Quintus snorts like a restless bull. He and I are clearly of similar mind. We’re neither of us happy—only a fool would gladly embrace our particular predicament—but fear is as alien to the good captain as it is to me. It’s a waste of energy, and clouds the mind besides. It’s a shame he and I are destined to work at cross-purposes. Not opposing, not as such. Ultimately, we want the same thing. Alas, he hasn’t the stomach for the journey I have planned. Today, though? Today were allies of circumstance.
Unless I have to kill him. That’s always a possibility.
“My money’s on Selloni,” says Quintus at last. “Caught a couple of his brigantines at harbour last week. Impounded near three thousand tonnes, all of it st
ill bearing the brands and spilt blood of the Solokan Estates. They’re getting sloppy. Relying too much on Lord Avanov looking the other way.”
Poor Avanov. By now, he’s finally realised Quintus isn’t as malleable as his predecessor. And Quintus could be right. It could be Selloni. He’s never lacked for pride. Though he struts and preens as a princeps of corsairs, the truth is, Giack Selloni’s nothing but a thug with a taste for velvet and lace.
“Still, my lord,” Quintus clearly isn’t done. “I’m surprised you’d let any of your lackeys get out of hand. Unhappiness in the ranks, is it?”
“A certain dissatisfaction has been brewing, I must confess. Change is always a catalyst.”
He laughs, the notes dry as dust. “Under other circumstances, I reckon I’d be glad to see this. The great and untouchable Lord Solomon, strung up by his criminal brethren.”
He sounds bitter, and I suppose I can’t blame him. I’ve not exactly been subtle. I’ve never seen the point. Why waste effort on legerdemain and obfuscation when fear and greed are so much more efficient? Half my fellow councillors know the steps I’ve taken to control Tressia’s disordered underworld, but there’s not a man or woman amongst them brave enough to actually come out and say as much. A promise here and there, and most are happy enough to look the other way. And for those who aren’t? Well, there are promises, and there are promises. Without their support, there’s little Quintus can do.
You want my advice? Throw off the shackles of mortality as soon as you’re able. Become a legend. Let the tales of your deeds run before you like howling wolves, sapping resolve before intent crystallises into action. Naturally, some will perceive you as a challenge, a rung on the ladder to their own ascension. Like I said, ambition is one of the few constants in life. The trick is to stay one move ahead, to let your challenger’s death and disgrace be the kindling that causes your fire to blaze all the brighter. The question is, am I still one move ahead? Is the game still following the rules I’ve set?
Evil is a Matter of Perspective: An Anthology of Antagonists Page 33
