Ash and Ambition

by Ari Marmell

  She never reached it, and her scream died scarcely born. Smim leapt from behind, a hideous jumping spider, his spindly limbs clamping around her waist and shoulders. With a grotesque gurgle he latched his jaw onto the back of her neck, jagged teeth sawing easily through flesh and jarring on bone.

  Nycolos delivered a fearsome kick to the edge of the table, sending the long wooden slab hard into the hips and stomachs of the Firsts standing across from him. Men and women fell, grunting in pain, and he knew none of them would be moving to attack or racing for aid—not in the moments it would take him to deal with the two who approached.

  He punched hard with the palm of his hand, driving the oncoming chair back into the face of the man who carried it. Blood spurted and the First staggered, still in the fight but off his stride.

  Nycolos spun, catching and then crushing the woman’s fist as she struck. Her shriek of pain wavered as her body grew weak at the sudden shock, then died entirely as Nycolos reached forth his other hand, gripped her chin tight, and snapped her neck.

  Another moment and he had wrested the chair away from the woman’s companion; a moment after that was all the time it took for that chair to beat the life from the man who’d carried it.

  Finishing off the remaining Firsts was even more slaughter and less combat than these had been. In the end, Nycolos stood upon the table, a bloody club that had once been a chair leg grasped tight in one fist, to ensure all the horrified slaves could see him.

  Not all, it seemed, were as cowed as others. “What have you done?!” someone shouted from the far corner of the barracks.

  “I killed the other Firsts,” Nycolos answered. “I figured that was obvious enough I really wouldn’t have to explain it in too much depth.”

  The goblin, wiping blood from his mouth on a scrap of tunic, sniggered.

  “You’ve killed all of us! The overseers will never—!”

  Nycolos shook his head. “The overseers are not your concern. The sounds of battle you’ve heard outside? The gnomes are coming. I spoke the truth earlier. They’ll no longer confine their attacks to the mines. They’re coming for everyone.”

  “Why?!” It was Safia who shouted now. “Why would you do this?”

  “Because I’ve also made a bargain with them. Anyone who flees will be permitted to go unharmed.”

  The murmuring that had been growing as Nycolos spoke, an even mix of anger and fear, faded to nothing as the implications sank in.

  “Where are we supposed to go?” another slave demanded. “The Outermark—”

  “Is dangerous. It can be deadly. But it’s not endless. Go with care, help one another, you’ve a good chance to survive. You can leave here, and live or die, you’ll be free. Or you can stay and fight the gnomes at the side of the men and women who’ve made you into less than beasts!”

  He leapt from the table and strode toward the door, Smim falling into step behind. “Do as you will. But I am leaving, and I will go through anyone who attempts to stop me.”

  Several of the slaves, Keva and Safia among them, gathered around him—some begging or pleading for a third option, some moving as though they would accompany him—but none stood in his path.

  “You had no right!”

  That, of everything he heard, dragged Nycolos to a brief halt, locking eyes with Safia. “I beg your pardon.”

  “You had no right!” she repeated, practically hissing. “Something like this? You should have talked to everyone first! We should have had a say in our own fate!”

  “So the overseers could hear about it and move to stop us? So we could have our chance at freedom debated on, decided, ripped from our grasp by the cowards among us? No. I saw a chance—not just for myself, but for us all—and I took it. I allow no one, taskmaster or slave, to bind me. No one!”

  “And is it any more just that your choice binds us?”

  “Since nobody else was capable of offering us freedom? Yes.”

  “You could at least have told us,” Keva interrupted before Nycolos could either storm off or continue the argument. “Safia and me. You roped us into this, and we helped because we trusted you. You could have trusted us in turn.”

  Nycolos blinked once, long and languid, the expression almost… reptilian. “And you, of course, would have told absolutely nobody.”

  “Of course!”

  “You would never once have given into the temptation to warn even your closest friends of what was coming.”

  Keva’s look of righteous indignation faltered. “Well…”

  “And they, in turn, would not have warned any of their friends.”

  “I don’t… I mean—”

  “Word would have spread, Keva. And whether through cowardice, or greed, or simple carelessness, someone would eventually have let it slip to a First or an overseer. Where would that have left us?”

  The smaller slave muttered something apparently directed either at his feet or the floor beneath them.

  Still, before Nycolos had taken two more steps, Keva spoke up again. “So what are we doing now?”

  Safia’s lips twisted at that “we,” but she said nothing to counter it.

  “You,” Nycolos said, “are going to get everyone else moving. Or run on your own, if you prefer.”

  “Shouldn’t we stay together?”

  “Smim and I are going to fulfill the rest of my bargain with the gnomes. You’re welcome to come along and assist if you’d prefer, but…” He turned and looked pointedly at the corpses he and the goblin had left scattered about one side of the chamber. “I’m not convinced you’d care to be a part of it.”

  Without waiting for a response, or further interruption, he barged through the door and out into the struggle-filled night. As he’d expected, nobody but the goblin moved to join him.

  ___

  The guards fought well, bravely—or perhaps desperately—but they had little chance. Their iron-studded clubs and similar weapons were effective, but they lacked the speed or sheer ferocity of the mountain fey. Even with the occasional lamp or torch, glowing atop poles throughout the camp, the night impeded them far more than it did the unnatural creatures from beneath the earth. Without the Firsts leading the other slaves to support them, they were greatly outnumbered, and none could spare even a moment’s attention to try and learn why their workers had not yet appeared.

  And, as they learned all too swiftly, they faced another enemy from behind.

  Armed with a short blade taken from a fallen soldier, Smim crept through shadow and dirt, an invisible predator. Blood streaked sword and teeth, and his inhuman features had warped into an expression of savage glee utterly at odds with his normal demeanor. For a time, he allowed himself to be a goblin, and his heart reveled in the carnage.

  For Nycolos, however, there was no skulking, no stealth. He carried no weapon. Standing tall, flesh hardened enough to turn away weak or glancing blows, he strode through the camp, daring anyone, everyone, to notice. Already a small band of guards, only just having forced themselves awake and climbed into their armor, had seen him coming and called to him for aid.

  He had slammed into them, an avalanche of impossible muscle and razored talons, shredding two before anyone recognized him as threat rather than ally. He had made equally swift work of the remainder, taking only a single injury severe enough to penetrate his skin—a shallow slash across his left ribs—in the process. The exultation of that violence, of striking back not merely at collaborators but at the men and women who had dared to hold him, to call him slave, burned in his veins, searing away most of the pain.

  Most, but not all—and even as another soldier crossed his path, fleeing an unseen foe and dying swiftly beneath Nycolos’s black claws, he suddenly wondered.

  If the wound wasn’t deep, had not penetrated anywhere near the organs he dare not reshape, was it any different than armoring his skin, strengthening muscle, sprouting talons? Could he…?

  The concentration required was intense. Not the change itself, no; rather,
shifting that particular patch of flesh back to the form he’d initially chosen, when it was whole and healthy, while maintaining the claws, the inhuman durability and strength, that were alien to this human shape. Reverting here, but not there. Returning one tiny bit of his body to the human template while leaving so much of it… not.

  Intense, but not impossible. His exultation flared higher as the wound closed, faded so that no scar, no sign beyond one extra rip in his tunic, remained.

  He couldn’t help it. He laughed, long and loud, the sound carrying over the clash of battle from within the mines and, growing ever nearer, various spots and patches throughout the camp itself.

  The door to the equipment shed and armory, located just beside Justina’s “office,” burst open, revealing the taskmaster Rasmus and two of his soldiers. For an endless instant they gawped at the apparently maddened figure of their newest First.

  Nycolos swallowed the rest of his mirth, but he allowed his face to remain stretched in an almost manic grin. “It seems things have gotten a bit out of hand, Rasmus.”

  “Where—where are the rest of my Firsts?”

  “Hmm.” Nycolos spread his hands in an exaggerated shrug, deliberately exposing his crimson-coated talons to the torchlight. “Where indeed?”

  The taskmaster screamed an order, the two guards beside him advanced, raising their spears…

  Uncaring, now, how much of his inhuman strength he exposed, Nycolos leapt.

  Through the humid night air that strength propelled him, clearing more than a dozen feet. Passing between speartips brought to bear far too slowly by their startled wielders, he extended both arms.

  Claws punched through flesh and skulls. Nycolos landed in a crouch before Rasmus, having dragged both soldiers to the ground with him. Accompanied by the crack of bone, he stood.

  And nearly took a spear in the gut for his trouble. Only a desperate bound backward kept the blade from striking with enough force to slide clean through his toughened skin; he bled even as it was, though the wound was shallow. Say what one would about the taskmaster, the man had nerves iron enough they might have harmed the mountain fey. Obviously he was thrown, frightened, by Nycolos’s powers, but just as obviously the dramatics had not intimidated him into freezing up.

  They watched one another, circled a few steps. Rasmus’s skin glinted in the lanternlight, pale and slick with sweat, but his hands remained steady. The spear flicked out, lizard’s tongue-quick, faster even than Nycolos could grab it. Perhaps, if he augmented his body further still… But he wasn’t certain he could push himself that far beyond the bounds of humanity, not without concentration that might distract him at a crucial moment. Later he would experiment with it, but for now he must make do with what he had. What he was.

  He stepped forward, and the spear moved to intercept. The weapon thrust, and each time Nycolos sidestepped or parried with extended talons.

  And then Rasmus grunted once, coughed up a mouthful of bile-tainted blood, and fell face-first with a limp, hollow whump.

  “Did you get lost?” Nycolos sneered. “Should I have left you a map of the camp?”

  “Sorry, Master.” The goblin yanked his stolen sword free of the taskmaster’s spine. “You appeared to be having such a grand time, I was hesitant to interrupt.”

  Nycolos moved to lift the nearest lantern off its post. “You have a peculiar notion of fun, Smim.”

  “Yes, Master. I haven’t the faintest idea where I might possibly have learned such a thing.”

  “Oh, shut up.” A quick toss with now-clawless human hands, a sharp shattering, and the storehouse from which Rasmus had emerged swiftly began to smolder.

  “Yes, Master.” Then, doing absolutely nothing of the sort, he continued, “Have we killed enough of the defenders to fulfill our obligation?”

  “I thought you were enjoying murdering the people who’d enslaved you, Smim.” Nycolos crouched briefly, hefting one of the fallen spears.

  “Oh, very much so. But I’d even more enjoy being gone from here before the mountain fey conveniently forget that they’re supposed to allow us to depart.”

  “Fair point. We’re almost done. We’ve just one more stop.”

  Smim followed his gaze and nodded once. Marching almost in unison, the mismatched pair entered the structure nearest the now merrily burning storehouse.

  Justina Norbenus stood within, dressed for travel, several chests and leather sacks lying at her feet. Coin and other valuables, Nycolos had no doubt. She was hunched over the desk, gathering selected ledgers, as they entered. She spun, straightening, at their sudden appearance, and just as swiftly relaxed, if only marginally, when she recognized them.

  “Start loading these on the horses!” she ordered, gesturing at the gathered riches. “We have to get out of here!”

  “Well,” Nycolos mused, crossing his arms and otherwise moving not at all, “two-thirds of us do.”

  The mine owner froze, thoughts and questions churning almost visibly behind her slack expression. Her jaw gave a twitch.

  “If you’re contemplating shouting for Rasmus,” Nycolos told her, “you might want to consider that you’re far more likely to attract the gnomes. They have pretty good hearing.”

  “Also Rasmus is dead,” Smim added helpfully.

  “Also that, yes.”

  Justina’s shoulders, indeed her entire body, slumped. Clearly it didn’t even occur to her to doubt their claim. “You… You did this?”

  “Some of it. The fey deserve their share of the credit, though.”

  “Why?!”

  Nycolos felt his chin drop, his mouth gape, in utter disbelief. “You cannot have just asked me that!”

  “It was never personal. We needed workers. Were you not fed? Given shelter? It’s more than many people can—”

  “Master?” The goblin’s voice actually quivered with churning emotions. “May I please chew on her face now?”

  “No.”

  “Stab her, at least?”

  “No, Smim. We’ll not be killing the Lady Norbenus today.”

  The vicious little creature had no opportunity to express his dismay, nor Justina her surprised and incredulous relief, before Nycolos struck.

  With a low-pitched whistle and blur of motion, his scavenged spear flipped around so that it was the butt end, rather than the blade, that landed. A hideous crack flowed without pause into Justina’s agonized scream as she collapsed, clutching at her now splintered shin.

  “Can’t have you leaving before the mountain fey find you,” Nycolos explained, though he couldn’t be certain his former “owner” heard or understood him through her pain. “They really don’t want anyone intruding on their domain again, you see. So I explained to them the advantages of setting an unmistakable example.”

  He casually tossed the spear to clatter against the desk, landing halfway across the chamber. “I believe their intent is to see just how much of you they can turn to stone before you’ve died of the wounds, and then display what’s left. I’m not certain, of course. They were still discussing it when I left. If that sounds too unpleasant, you can always drag yourself over to that spear and slit your own throat. I don’t think you’ve the spine for it, since you’ve always had other people to commit your violence, but it’s entirely up to you.

  “In your next life, if you believe in such a thing, try to be a bit more selective in who you dare think to make your slave!” He could only hope, as his eyes turned gold and inhuman, the better to make his way through the dark of night, that she was coherent enough to notice it. “Come on, Smim. Now we’re done.”

  With nary another word, he who now called himself Nycolos Anvarri vanished into the wilds of the Outermark, once more making his long way toward human civilization—and, with luck, the means to shed this pathetic lesser form, lesser life, he’d assumed along with his stolen name.

  Chapter Five

  Conventional wisdom and tavern tales dubbed Tohl Delian the most heavily fortified city the continent of
Galadras had ever seen. While some historians or sages might quibble with that claim, none could argue that the walls of this, the capital of Ktho Delios, were an awe-inspiring marvel.

  Quarried from the nearby Aerugo Mountains, the stone walls averaged a dozen feet across and nearly three times that in height, though precise measurement varied. They sloped outward, boasted countless watchtowers and engine platforms. Rumor held that thousands of soldiers patrolled those walls or stood sentry within its towers—and many times that number of slaves, prisoners of raids and war, had given their labor, and often their lives, in the construction of that bastion.

  None of which, the foreigner decided as she raised her gaze to that looming barrier for the umpteenth time in the last hour, made it even remotely beautiful. She’d never say so aloud, not in present company, but she thought it looked like some divine infant had used playroom blocks in an attempt to imitate a mountain.

  She stood smack in the middle of a winding line of humanity, awaiting admission to the walled city, wrapped in layers of capes and shawls against the bite of Ktho Delios’s autumn winds. Before such gusts the hems of her garments fluttered and flapped, as did those worn by every man and woman she could see, the tarps covering a variety of wagons, the tails and scraggly manes of mules, and anything else the weather could idly pick up and play with. It smelled of a bewildering combination of lush greenery and the coming winter snows, carried down from the peaks of the Aerugos.

  In the distance—far from the ramparts, for the Ktho Delian military would never suffer a tree to grow near their walls—branches and leaves rustled their complaints against the growing cold. Atop the highest parapets furled and snapped the black banners of the Deliant, the military parliament that ruled Ktho Delios under an entrenched and permanent martial law. The dirt of the road, though packed down tight by constant travel, danced low in the wind, swirling around the ankles of all who waited.