Walking The Razor's Edge

by Ileandra Young

  Last to crumble was the head.

  Saar gave it a single glance, then turned away, unable to look at the wet, red ruin that had once been Mosi’s face.

  His heart shredded and the agony inside only mounted as Saar’s soul broke apart. The part of his mind devoted to his first childe tore free and fell silent for the last time.

  Sobs wracked Saar’s body. He curled up on his knees, clutching his head with his palms flat to his ears. His fingernails gouged his eyes. Shuddering gasps shook his body.

  Then a new presence rushed in, fresh thoughts and pains all laced with a single thread of panic that expanded as the bond solidified.

  The tears stopped instantly, misery and anguish swallowed by fury as, in an instant, Saar understood the truth.

  The thud of horse’s hooves pounded the wet earth on the right. The beast trotted right up to him then stopped to allow a frantic rider to spill to the ground. ‘Lord Saar?’ Tristen’s voice cracked as he stumbled closer, clutching a sabre close to his blue and white chest. ‘I feel you. You. Mosi is gone.’

  Saar surged to his feet. Colours brightened and every smell on the battlefield leapt out to sting his nose. Fangs tore through his bottom lip as they extended from his gumline, longer than ever before. ‘You! You did this.’ He grabbed Tristen by the throat and shook him. Over and over, watching his head wobble like a marionette’s. ‘I feel the guilt in you. You attacked Mosi. You cut him. You killed him.’

  A terrified squeal bubbled from Tristen’s lips. His fingernails clawed at Saar’s wrists. ‘I had no choice. He meant to kill me.’

  ‘Then you should have allowed it!’ Saar sobbed through the fury as he pushed through Tristen’s thoughts, picking apart the very moment he sliced Mosi’s throat.

  ‘With my blade?’ He choked. ‘You would use my blade, my gift to him, to end his life?’

  A dark look passed through Tristen’s eyes. The rush of his fear stopped dead, cut short by anger. He spoke no word, gave no warning, simply thrust up with the musket and the deadly bayonet at its tip.

  Air rushed from Saar’s lungs as the blade struck home, slicing through clothing and flesh with ease. He tried to speak, but this choking sensation was real and the liquid bubble of blood in his throat no longer belonged to someone else. He coughed. Wheezed. Winced as a blob of thick red blood oozed from the side of his mouth. ‘What . . .’ His hands loosened.

  Tristen dropped back to his feet, rubbing his neck with both hands.

  The blade of the bayonet protruded from Saar’s chest, thick end wobbling as he breathed. The warm metal burned in his flesh, scraping bone, piercing his heart. He dropped to his knees.

  Darkness crowded in. ‘You . . .’ More blood bubbled over his lips.

  Tristen smiled. His eyes flashed white. ‘I killed him, Saar, as I’ll kill you. It is the very least I deserve as recompense for what the pair of you took from me.’ He left the bayonet in place and pulled the bronze dagger from the inside of his jacket. The blade was smeared with blood. Mosi’s blood.

  Saar roared with impotent rage.

  ‘Fitting don’t you think? That the blade which ended Mosi should end you too.’ His body tensed, as if to swing down, but a floret of red blossomed on his jacket, directly above his heart. He stopped. Stumbled. Shock glimmered in his green eyes. ‘How . . .’ Blood oozed from his slack mouth.

  As he fell to the ground face first, Saar had just enough time to feel relief that his death would also claim Tristen, before darkness welled up and swallowed everything.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Saar sat up clutching at the air, crying out as darkness met his gaze. Only after seconds of scrambling did he realise his face was covered. He shivered, remembering a similarly traumatic time he woke in such a manner; a soft, comfortable bed in Cleopatra’s palace, listening to the sounds of her argument with Antony.

  The bindings about his face smelled faintly of fish. Pulling them away revealed white strips of linen with red borders, many of them stretched across his arms, shoulder and chest. Another strip bound his stomach. He wore nothing else.

  He blinked. Surveyed the room. Small, a box with wooden walls and a low hanging roof. Brine permeated the air. Coarse-loop fishing nets hung from the ceiling and against the right wall leaned two knobbly staffs with crude knives strapped to the topmost ends. A low table stood opposite with half a boned fish on a cracked blue plate. Thin sunlight struggled to pierce the accumulated grime on a single tiny window.

  He swung his legs over the side of the narrow, lumpy bed.

  His chest burned, worse than it had for many years. In that instant he remembered it all.

  ‘Mosi . . .’

  He reached out along the ancient line that linked their minds together.

  Nothing. Not a tickle, not a tingle, not a whisper.

  His throat swelled. The prick of tears stung his eyes. ‘Gods,’ he whispered. ‘He’s truly gone. What have I done?’ He reached again, battling the truth, hoping, begging that he was wrong. He had to be wrong. Mosi couldn’t truly be dead.

  The yawning emptiness gaped inside him, that piece of his heart dedicated to his first childe, barren and dry.

  Saar flopped back against the bed, covering his face with his hands. Hot tears scorched down his cheeks. ‘Mosi.’ The name tasted bitter on his tongue.

  The sound of shuffling footsteps pierced his misery and for one insane moment he thought he might be wrong. ‘Mosi?’ Desperation and hope lightened his voice until he barely recognised it. ‘You’ve returned to me?’

  A woman entered the small space, bent-backed and grey-haired, clutching a curved fish hook in gnarled, spotted fingers. ‘You’re awake. Good.’ She spoke French but not the way he usually heard it. This rough approximation of the language carried the weight of a strong accent, hinting at another, more comfortable tongue. ‘I feared you would die in the night.’

  Saar’s shoulders sagged. The frantic hope in his chest withered and faded.

  Not Mosi. Mosi would never be back. Mosi was gone. Forever.

  ‘Well, boy,’ the stranger loitered in the doorway, ‘how do you feel?’ Her skin, though dark like his own, appeared wrinkled like old, toughened leather. ‘Would you like something to eat?’ That accent strained around the words.

  The very thought of food turned Saar’s stomach. In all likeliness he would never eat again. He shook his head.

  ‘Drink? We have water.’

  Though every part of him ached to do it, Saar looked the woman up and down and, after careful consideration, spoke in Dutch. ‘What I need you cannot give me.’

  Her whithered face broke into a joyous, ugly smile. She switched languages effortlessly to match him, the change making her lively and animated. ‘Nonsense. Food and rest is all you need. Though perhaps I should clean your wounds again. I’m surprised you’re alive.’

  ‘I’m stronger than I look.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’ The woman stepped further into the small room and tilted her head. Light from the window fell across her face.

  Saar winced. ‘Your eyes . . .’

  ‘Gone. Yes, but I see well enough. My name is Gerda.’

  Easing his feet back into the bed, Saar studied her movements. She stroked rough fingertips over every available surface as she moved; the wall, a chair, the table. When the curtain of fishing nets brushed her face, she grasped it and followed one looping edge. At the bed, she used the backs of her legs to guide her into a sitting position. ‘There, now let me look at you.’

  He didn’t move.

  She wriggled closer and grabbed his face, her aim clean and accurate. Her rough fingers stroked his cheeks and jaw. ‘I knew it. You were weeping. What happened, boy?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He shrugged her away.

  ‘Your body says otherwise. Injuries such as those I found on you would kill a man if left untreated. I rinsed them with vinegar, but they stank of death.’ Her nostrils flared. ‘You smell better now. Your fever has broken.’

  No c
hoice remained but to accept her word, but Saar could still smell sickness. The sickly sweet stench of rot lingering on each puff of air. He linked it to Gerda and listened carefully as she inhaled. There . . . bubbling away in her chest some strange fluid that hampered her breathing. Even her skin carried the scent of illness. The woman had weeks to live. Maybe days.

  Saar touched the bindings about his chest. ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘A day. Retreating soldiers left you by the road when the need for speed overtook their loyalty. My daughter found you and brought you here.’

  ‘Retreating? The battle was lost?’ Saar gazed at his fingers. It came as little surprise that ‘his’ men abandoned him at their first opportunity. But his children should have come for him; Yameen, Hahn and Cerdic had been relatively close. They should have felt his pain. The implications of his thoughts brought a stab of fear to his chest. A cry escaped his mouth. Stars of green, blue and purple danced before his eyes. Bile rose in his mouth.

  Gerda seized his shoulder. The strength in her grip belied her frail body and she pushed him back against the pillows. ‘If it hurts, lie still. Too much movement will reopen your wounds.’

  Saar ignored her, instead feeling along the links to his other children. Cerdic first. Oldest after Kallisto, he usually answered within moments, a spike of energy to show his location. The space reserved for him revealed nothing.

  Ice flooded Saar’s belly.

  He checked Yameen. Hahn. Ignatia. Tadeo. Nahia. Aydodele. Waneta. Ebisu. Bomani. Naenia.

  Gods, they’re gone.

  He stared at the filthy ceiling, struggling to pull some sense from his scattered thoughts.

  Were they gone? Perished like his other children back in Alexandria? Had Tristen’s attack killed them all as Mosi’s had on the sands by the river? Again he searched, again he reached out, but each time he found an empty hollow, like an eggshell or a cracked nut.

  Gone.

  Panic gripped his heart.

  Alone.

  Again. This time without even the shadow of Mosi hanging over him.

  He screamed, leaping off the bed and thrashing through the room. He smashed the blue plate on the floor. Kicked over the table. Tore the nets from the ceiling and ripped them apart with his fingers. As he did he cried, wordless bellows of rage that strained his throat and thrummed in his ears.

  Two minutes later he sank to his knees in the wreckage of the room, panting and weeping.

  Gerda sighed. Throughout his raging she neither moved, nor spoke, though now she did both, brushing fragments of torn netting from her lap. ‘Wars are good for nothing but pain. I wonder when the great leaders will see that. Nothing is worth the anguish you feel.’ Her hand stroked the air, as if reaching for the hanging nets. She sighed. ‘Boy, I will leave you to your grief, but first you must guide me out.’

  The pound of rushing footsteps shook through the floorboards.

  Saar leapt to his feet, fangs sliding free with ease as he lowered himself into a fighting crouch.

  A young figure in a loose blue dress rushed into the room. She carried another of those long sticks with a knife lashed to the end, though this one was wet and slathered in fish guts. She took one look at the scene within and lowered the blade in his direction. ‘Leave my mother alone,’ she yelled in flawless French.

  A snarl rippled from Saar’s lips.

  Gerda’s hand snapped up. ‘No, Celeste. He means no harm.’

  ‘But he—’

  ‘Leave him. He may be coarse and rude—you’re yet to give me your name, boy—but he is just that: a boy. One exposed to too many of life’s hard battles. He won’t hurt us.’ She spoke quickly, but soothingly, the Dutch words hanging in the air and waiting.

  The girl lowered her fishing spear. Her eyes narrowed. ‘I thought he would die in the night.’

  ‘He’s stronger than he looks. Help me, girl.’

  After a fractional hesitation, she obeyed, picking her way through the wreckage to reach Gerda. She wrapped the older woman in a tight embrace then helped her through the room, sweeping obstacles out of the way with her feet as she went.

  At the door Gerda gently pulled free and turned back to Saar. ‘Your clothes are gone. I burned them. But my late husband’s clothes will fit you. You may have them on the condition that you rest until you are well enough to wear them.’ She shuffled away, leaving the younger girl behind, still clutching her bloodied spear.

  Silence stretched between them, long and tense. Saar closed his lips over his fangs and blinked the darkness out of his eyes before it could take hold.

  The girl leaned the spear against her shoulder and folded her arms. A blue scarf bound her hair, but tight black curls spilled from the back of it, an unruly mop of coarse strands. ‘This is not how people usually show gratitude.’ Her brown eyes, though narrowed, were large and bright. ‘Well?’

  Saar flinched, abruptly aware of his nakedness before a girl of barely more than sixteen years. He relaxed his fighting stance and cast his gaze about the room for a suitable covering. ‘I—forgive me. I was—I grew angry.’

  ‘So I see.’ She continued to stare, her gaze boring into his as if to break through his skin and flesh to touch his very soul. ‘You lost someone?’

  He thought again of Mosi. Of the thud as his severed head hit the muddy ground. ‘. . . Yes.’

  Her gaze softened. ‘Me too.’

  More silence. Then, unable to think with her staring at him, Saar snatched a sheet off the bed and wrapped it about his middle. ‘I apologise for the room.’ The words stuttered from his lips. He frowned. When was the last time he apologised to a human? To anyone? ‘Perhaps I can fix it—’

  ‘No. Mama will arrange it to suit her. But you could tell me your name.’

  ‘Saar, son of Yafeu.’

  Her eyebrows twitched. ‘Strange name. Where are you from?’

  ‘Far away.’

  ‘I see. I’ll fetch you some clothes.’ She turned to leave.

  ‘Wait!’ When she did, Saar cleared his throat, embarrassed and angry for feeling so. ‘What is—may I know your name?’

  ‘Celeste.’

  He nodded. ‘Then . . . thank you, Celeste.’

  A smile touched her lips. Like the brightness of sunlight on a sparkling stream. ‘You’re welcome, Saar, son of Yafeu.’

  #

  Saar sat on the end of the lumpy bed, picking at his loose linen trousers. His borrowed shirt swamped his body, the strings across the chest drawn as tight as possible to compensate. Only a belt held the ensemble together, a simple leather strap with a single buckle. Beside him, a bowl of fishy broth threw steam into the air. The dented spoon beside it was tarnished but clean. With the bowl lay a plate of warm bread and a soft, crumbly cheese.

  The delicious smells wafted into his nostrils and brought moisture to his tongue, but he couldn’t bring himself to eat. He hungered, but the gnawing cravings demanded something else entirely.

  On the other side of the small room, Celeste watched him, her stare calm and steady. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘A soldier.’

  ‘An important one. I saw the markings on your jacket.’

  ‘It is no concern of yours.’

  ‘An important soldier with no marks of battle upon his skin.’

  The ache in his chest gave an angry throb. ‘My wounds are within and not easily seen.’

  Celeste cocked her head. ‘You are most sad and wan for a demon.’

  He stiffened. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘A demon.’ Though she spoke with confidence, her body tensed. She gripped the door frame, as if readying herself to dart through it. ‘I found you on the road where your men left you to die. You should be dead. Yet here you are with no sign of battle upon you but the defeat in your eyes.’

  ‘I am not defeated.’ He surged to his feet, across the room in one long stride, wrapping his fingers around her slender throat. ‘I am Saar. The Chosen.’ He tightened his grip, smiling as the girl gasped with the
last of her breath and clawed at his fingers. ‘Feel my strength, human, know I am all powerful.’ With a last squeeze he let her go, growling as she crawled away from his feet.

  Celeste gagged, massaging the red indents of his fingers against her skin. When her gaze met his once more, her lower lip trembled. ‘You are powerful, but you are also lost. Pain hides in every word you speak and every movement you make.’ Slow, wincing at every inch, Celeste stood and shuffled towards the door.

  Saar stepped into her path, readying himself to take her mind and crush it. He had to; he couldn’t let her live, not knowing of his affiliation with Bonaparte, knowing of his wounds.

  He snagged her arm and pulled her close, stroking one hand down the side of her face as his vision sharpened and brightened. A sudden urge to apologise swelled within him, but he shoved it back and pushed down on her will with his god-given strength. She would be calm, still and silent. She would forget. Then, she would give herself to him, healing his body with her precious blood.

  Her eyes widened. In those deep, dark pools, Saar caught his own reflection, the dim blackness of his own eyes mirrored in hers. Then his mental charge hit a wall and his passage into her mind ceased. He shuddered, shaking his head from the mental echo of the impact. When he tried again, his powers met the same curious, frightening block.

  ‘You are a demon.’ Wonder filled Celeste’s voice.

  Saar thrust her out to arm’s length. ‘Impossible. You’re not human.’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘Then give to me. Bend. Let me take your mind and mould it as I have done thousands of others.’ Saar tried again, shaping Shalat like a spear to pierce her thoughts and make them his.

  Nothing. As if he fought to influence a block of stone, or a lump of metal. His head ached with the effort.

  Trembling, he released Celeste’s shoulders. ‘What are you?’

  ‘I’m like you.’

  ‘You’re not god-touched. I would feel it.’

  She plucked his hands off her shoulders. ‘I don’t know what that means, but we are alike, you and I.’