Shadows of Blood

by L. E. Dereksen

  Alutan felt the familiar pit of despair clawing at him. What had he done, indeed? Only waiting, and hiding, and waiting, and then being so easily defeated once he’d crawled from his hole.

  Ishvandu took another step. The Aktyr rose from him, seeping into the Unseen like a noxious gas. “So yes. Yes, she’s dead, and I killed her. I ripped the Aktyr out of her grasp and left her to die, and do you know why? Because I don’t have the blasted time to stop and care about the life of one stupid girl when the whole of the Three Realms is collapsing. The Aktyr will not suffer two masters, and she was more likely to destroy us all than be a shred of use.”

  Oh, Hyranna!

  Alutan wanted to be furious, to lash out. Yet hadn’t he killed as well? Hadn’t he put Daryn to the sword just days ago, claiming it was a mercy? Hadn’t he led Ishvandu into a trap? Freedom from the Aktyr, he’d thought—against Ishvandu’s own will, freedom.

  Alutan. Healer.

  He covered his face. He fell back against a tree. Something started in his chest like a sob.

  “You think she’s innocent.” Ishvandu said softly. “You think she’s a victim. You have no idea, do you? Haven’t you learned anything?” He gave a bitter laugh. “The Aktyr never chooses the innocent.”

  “None are innocent. All are.”

  Ishvandu rolled his eyes. “Like Lina?”

  Alutan gasped, straightening. “How do you know that . . . ?”

  “The red tree. The one that shielded itself with the power of my Aktyr all these years. Don’t you know what happened to it?”

  Alutan could barely speak his fears aloud. “You’re not supposed to know—”

  “Andalina Na-es. The mother of your son, Balduin Na-es. Bound to that tree somehow. The woman you abandoned ten years ago when you went off on some mysterious quest—probably to speak to the Chorah’dyn. Hyranna told me enough, and I put the rest together.”

  “Maker save us, what did you do?”

  “That was all Hyranna. Blamed the Dandyri for Balduin’s disappearance, I think. Ironic, isn’t it? Ignorant of Andalina’s Unseen connection to the red tree, she robbed the Dandyri of what was protecting it, then used the Aktyr to destroy it. So basically, she murdered her best friend’s mother and drove him from the safety of Elamori. Innocent, right?”

  Alutan’s chest constricted. He shook his head, anger and grief battering against him.

  “Maker above, don’t you dare—you know as well as I. The Aktyr did this. You did this.”

  “Not me, Kylan.” Ishvandu held up his hands. “Not this time. I was dead. Remember?”

  And it hadn’t changed anything. It had only delayed this moment. And while the earth slowly decayed, the Aktyr had waited beneath it, storing up all the violence and contempt Ishvandu had poured into it.

  Alutan shut his eyes. He struggled for the light inside, the power he had tried to disown, there in the darkness. He felt nothing. He felt empty, drained of everything. He could attack Ishvandu. He could blame him. And he might even be right to. But his grief had become too complex, his own failures and mistakes whispering to him from a broken past. It wasn’t Hyranna’s fault. It wasn’t Kulnethar’s. And it wasn’t even Ishvandu’s. Not wholly.

  “You’re right,” he finally croaked. “I did deceive you. You think I haven’t questioned that decision every day for hundreds of years? That I don’t question it still? I’ve lived with that. I’ve wondered what other choice I might have made, what else might have been—every day, knowing a whole world of possibility was cut short. By me.”

  “Not used to being the bad guy, are you?” Ishvandu snorted. “But no—never you. You defeated the Aktyr. You might have saved lives.”

  “Or I might have destroyed one.” Alutan looked pointedly at his old friend.

  Ishvandu grinned—dangerously close to the wildness of the Aktyr. “I guess we’ll get to find out now, won’t we?”

  So Alutan was finally confronting the ghosts of his past. So be it. Maybe this was the sign he’d been waiting for. Maybe this was his second chance. A new start.

  “I can help you,” he said, straightening. “I can go into the Unseen. I can find it and kill it, and you will be free. We . . . we both will.” He swallowed. “And you will live.”

  Ishvandu leaned forward. He gripped Alutan’s shoulder, and at their touch, both powers reared up like snarling wolves. Alutan dared not pull away, though he felt the Aktyr stalking him, leering at him and mocking his naive desires.

  “You don’t get it, do you, Kylan?” Ishvandu said. “This was never about living. You think I wanted the Aktyr? I hate it. I hate it almost as much as I hate him. But if I’m going to do what must be done, then I need it—”

  “No, Vanya.”

  “Yes. And don’t try to save me, this time. Don’t come after me. Don’t you dare come after me.”

  Alutan shook his head. “I made that choice a long time ago, Vanya. Here I am.” He spread his arms. “I will always come after you. Besides, you said you needed me. Remember? You had a plan.”

  “That was before you killed me.”

  “I can only apologize so many times . . .”

  “Once more.” Ishvandu’s face went stony. Alutan looked at him, and never hesitated.

  “I should never have lied to you,” he said. “What I did was wrong. I’m sorry.”

  “Say it again.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Ishvandu’s voice dropped into a threat. “Now leave me.”

  The Aktyr snapped around Alutan like chains, squeezing his limbs with sudden vicious glee. Before Alutan could react, Ishvandu seized the sword from over his shoulder. It rang free.

  “Vanya, no!”

  The sword slammed into Alutan’s chest, tearing open his heart and punching out the other side.

  His eyes widened.

  “There,” Ishvandu said. “Now we’re even.”

  His body constricted. Blood pumped out the back of his shirt. He tried to speak, struggling as blackness swirled around him.

  “Oh, I know it won’t last,” Ishvandu said. “But if I don’t try to stop you, you’ll follow me no matter what I say, won’t you? Like a kicked pup who doesn’t know what’s good for him.” He snorted. “Listen Kylan. Don’t come after me.”

  “Vanya . . .”

  “And if I haven’t changed your mind about Hyranna Elduna, I think there’s something left of her. Some pitiful shred the Aktyr’s toying with. If you hurry . . .”

  Alutan groaned. His legs buckled. He fell to the ground, struggling to speak through gritted and bloody teeth.

  “Vanya, what . . . what are you going to do? You said . . . you couldn’t do it without me.”

  “It turns out maybe I can. If I can get to your son before he does.”

  “What? Vanya—”

  “You can thank me later!”

  Before Alutan could demand an explanation, Ishvandu stalked off into the trees.

  It could be worse, Alutan decided.

  Ishvandu could have smashed all his limbs, like the Aktyr so thoroughly enjoyed.

  He coughed wetly. Blood rattled through his chest, still soaking the ground at an alarming rate.

  He was going to pass out.

  He had to get the sword out first. He gripped the hilt. Nice of Ishvandu to stick him in the chest instead of the back, at least. He coughed again.

  He pulled. Pain speared through every part of him, and he fell back groaning. The sword hadn’t budged. He swore. Out. He had to . . .

  He pulled again. Blood and saliva sprayed from his mouth. His limbs were weak. His mind started to cloud.

  Where was his fire? His power, his blessing and his curse . . .

  He slammed his teeth together and pulled. Something let go, and the sword slid free with a gush of blood. Then Alutan’s breath gave out, and he died.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Tandra Yourk

  Tandra’s eyes flung open, breath scraping sharp into her lungs.

  “Gods be, you ba
stard, I’ll rip your throat out of your nose if you—”

  She stopped. The forest was silent. A few birds scurried out of sight, and Tums was standing quietly at edge of the dead clearing, watching and chewing. The girl was motionless beside him.

  Her hands twitched. The stabbing in her side and back where the bullets were lodged became a dull throb, then a stiff memory. She glanced at the Kyr’amanu, still very much dead, then down at her own hands.

  Her fingers lifted and uncurled, and there, tucked into her palm, was the round, shining stone her nephew had so coveted. The thing Magellan Yourk was willing to die for.

  Had she just . . . died? And then come back?

  Tandra snorted and shook her head. She hadn’t even moved. Maybe it was all a dream. Possibly she’d fainted into some nightmare where the Terryn raiders had tracked down her nephew and seized him. And yet, Mag was convinced this was the Contessa’s secret, the source of her power. And what more powerful advantage than a means of transporting yourself wherever you fancied?

  And it was more than spying. Mag had seen her. She’d shot two men and felt their answering bullets rip into her. Not to mention she had the uncanny, disturbing sense that she was still lying somewhere in a pool of blood-soaked grass. She pressed a finger to her side, just in case. It hurt, but in a dull, fading sort of way.

  She made a face, shook herself, and climbed to her feet. Gods be! If there was the slightest chance this wasn’t some crazed fancy of her mind . . .

  Mag!

  Then Mag was taken, at the mercy of the Contessa’s men. They were closing on him even now, holding him at the end of a gun. But they wouldn’t kill him. Not yet. They would squeeze him first: not just on the where of this shiny stone, but on the Duke’s secrets, too, and everything he might know. And they would make him pay for his betrayal.

  Tandra’s mouth twisted liked she’d bit into mouldy cheese. She turned and snapped her fingers.

  “C’mon Tums, we gotta move, you hear? Krunyn’s eye, there’s going to be blood at the end of this, if I have my way.”

  She stood and marched back to the horse. But the girl . . .

  The child lay still. Her breath was short and shallow. Sweat beaded her skin.

  I’m not leaving you, Tandra Yourk had said. Damn her. Damn her rash promises. She was marching straight into danger, and such was no place for this child no matter her state. Better to leave her here.

  So she could die alone? What if the girl woke again, called for help? What of your promises then, old Yourk?

  Tandra grunted.

  A word was a word. She knew better.

  She gathered up the child and hoisted her onto Tums. “Sorry, my old friend,” she said. “But you’ve got to carry more than your own weight again, I’m afraid. Hold still, and don’t let her fall, you hear?”

  Tums snorted, but held still as Tandra settled the girl onto his wide back.

  The girl whimpered and groaned. Her eyes fluttered again, all black. Tandra just shook her head and got to work. She unwound the long reigns to make a bit of rope. The child would fall if she didn’t lash her in place. But how to do it without hurting her? She managed to pass the reins around Tums’s girth and then around each of the girl’s thighs, before knotting it around her waist. Almost like a saddle. Nothing comfortable, mind, but it was that or carry her on her own back.

  She draped the girl over Tums’s neck and was surprised to see fingers lace through the old horse’s mane. Not tightly. The strength was gone from them again, but half-consciously, like she’d clutched at Tandra. Desperate. Lonely. Scared.

  “Gentle now,” Tandra patted Tums’ neck. “Don’t jostle her, you hear? Poor thing’s been through enough.”

  Then they were off, Tandra leading, Tums trotting behind, bearing his rider. Every now and then, Tandra would glance behind her to make sure the girl was still in place. She wobbled back and forth, but the old horse was stepping more carefully now, conscious of his new, unfamiliar baggage.

  “Hang tight,” Tandra said as she walked. “We’ve got to march pretty smart if we’re going to save my Mag—and maybe your friends too, if my suspicions are correct. Krunyn’s eye, getting involved, that’s the problem. I know, I know. Look here, child, I can’t promise you I’ll be able to save any, you hear? I can’t promise. But I’ll shoot as many Terryn bastards as I can to save my boy. And well, if that helps both of us, so be it. I wish I could do more. I’m just one, though, I’m afraid. Still, this is one they should never have messed with, I tell you true.”

  Tandra chatted away, her voice finding a soft, unhurried rhythm despite the quick pace, jumping back and forth between Imo’ani and Manturian without even realizing it. Sometimes she wanted to pretend the girl could hear; sometimes she just talked to herself. She wasn’t usually a talker, but the flow of words was a strange comfort to her. It made the silence a little more bearable. It made thoughts of Mag, and what could be happening to him right now, a little less clamorous. It helped convince her this was all really happening, and not some strange, never-ending dream.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Jerad Amanti

  As Mag was marched into the slaver’s camp down by the river, one slave especially was watching.

  Jerad stared at the captive—the man he had tracked—a Northman, just like the rest of them, and he found it hard to dredge up any pity. It was this man’s fault they’d been dragged off like animals, used, beaten, and driven hard, then shot or led off into the trees, never to return. Anna, his thoughts strained. Please be alive, Anna. Please.

  Jerad had found the trail again the next morning. This Manturian had no sense of stealth, no forest-craft. Jerad had led a half-dozen rabid Northmen after him, right to his hole. A few rounds of gunshot flushed him out pretty fast, then the chase was on.

  “Take the kid back,” Garden had told two of his men. “I don’t want him getting any ideas, now we’re come to it. The five of us should be enough to take this little upstart turncoat. Oh, and if you see the other Yourk, the old one—kill her.”

  The two men shoved and prodded Jerad back to camp, but he could still hear the rattling of guns. At first fast and hard, back and forth, on both sides. Then it slowed. Occasional sharp punctures could be heard, then nothing. Either Garden and his men had all been killed, or the thief had finally been caught.

  Now Jerad had his answer.

  He watched the new captive limp into camp at gun-point. Barely more than a kid, he was, with pale blonde hair and a boyish face. He looked slight and innocent, certainly not a threat to Garden and his louts. Yet of the original five, only two remained.

  So maybe not as much a weakling as he looked.

  It sparked a grim satisfaction in Jerad. Some retribution at last. Now the Northmen numbers were down to eight.

  Brit Garden, on the other hand, looked positively gleeful. There was a short exchange between him and the captive, something in Manturian, and a moment later the man was forced to his knees. Then Garden snapped his fingers and called for Jerad.

  Really? Now?

  He’d expected—hoped—to be forgotten once Garden got his prize. Apparently, no such luck.

  He let one of the slavers march him across the trampled earth. Garden was saying something to his captive, and Jerad thought he caught the word, Imo’ani.

  “You understand?” Garden asked.

  The man nodded.

  “Kratofan! It’s too much work going back and forth, and I want you both to hear, seyah? Now pay attention, Yourk. Are you looking? This here’s the man that tracked you down, and a fine good job he did of it, wouldn’t you say?” He looked at Jerad with glittering eyes. “That’s right. I won’t take credit where it’s not due. Now I want you to take a good look. Because this bunta slave, right now, is higher in my estimation than you, turnie, and as bad as he’s got, you’re going to get it worse. Are you listening?”

  Jerad looked at the captive and their eyes met. Bright blue eyes, cornered, afraid, but determined to hang on
, full of instant hatred. It was obvious what Garden was doing. Why have two captives conspire together when they could so easily hate each other instead? All it took was the truth. My fault, Jerad thought. It’s my fault you’re here, and Garden will help you remember it.

  “Now, Feddel. You did well, alright. And don’t be saying I ain’t fair. Fair price, fair profit, as they say back where I’m from. So what? Ask me a favour, see, and I’ll do my best. Maybe a pick of one those women for the night. You’d like that, aye?”

  Jerad’s lips pursed together, furious at the suggestion. But if he accepted the offer, could he help one of the women escape? He thought of Laris and her silent, nightly weeping. He toyed with the idea, then quickly discarded it. Too dangerous.

  He met Garden’s eye instead. “One of them goes free,” he said. “That’s all I ask.”

  The man laughed, a bright, dangerous sound. “Is that all, now, Feddel? You do have stones, I give you that.”

  Jerad kept his voice steady. “Fair price, fair profit. One caught. One goes free.”

  Garden laughed. “Ain’t that rich? A karni talking trade like a Honan marketer! Trouble is, you didn’t do all the catching, now did you? I lost three men in that fight, and I think that’s enough compensation for one day. Those slaves are money in my pockets, you understand. Pick again.”

  “I may not have done the catching, but I did the tracking. He wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for me.”