Shadows of Blood

by L. E. Dereksen

  “Shut it, white-robe!” Someone growled and sent him sprawling to the ground. Another Labourer seized him.

  “He’s one of them! One of the Elders that’ve been lying to us.”

  “Don’t touch him!” I shouted, but the noise drowned me out. “Jil! Stop them!”

  Jil huddled against the side of the Flatrock. He stared up at me in shock.

  The mob began to jostle Kulnethar, shouting in his face, shoving him. “Kill the white-robes!” someone cried. “Kill the liars!”

  “No, not them!” I roared. “The Circle has betrayed you! The Al’kah—”

  No one heard me.

  Someone shoved Kulnethar and he vanished into an angry sea.

  “Guardians, take them!” Jarethyn shouted. “Do it now!”

  The command jolted the Guardians from their uncertainty. They advanced on the Flatrock, blades glimmering ahead of them.

  And the channel broke.

  It was Arkaya who howled a war-cry. I glimpsed bone spears and pruning hooks, clubs and knives. A roar of anger. The rebels churned out of the crowd. No, they were the crowd. Hundreds of them . . .

  They rushed the Guardians.

  “Ab’Admundi!’ Umaala cried. “Stop this, before it’s too late!”

  “Wait!” I threw out my arms. “We don’t want a fight. Arkaya, stop them!”

  It was too late. The rebels fell on the Guardians from behind.

  The first of them died. I watched a spear run through a Guardian’s back, bulging out of his chest like a violent tumour. The rebels poured over him, trampling his body. They took four more in a breath: a hook crunching into a woman’s head, hands ripping a man backward, clubs and hammers descending, breaking ribs, skulls, arms. They were like beasts—like Sumadi.

  Umaala roared and charged his captor. Mani staggered back, but not before her blade slid deep against the Guardian Lord’s neck. Antaru and Adar leapt to the attack. Ignoring the ribbons of his own blood, Umaala rolled, plucked his keshu off the ground, and in one impossibly graceful motion, swung as he rose.

  The edge opened Antaru’s chest, spraying blood.

  Adar and Mani closed in.

  The Guardians rallied behind Umaala. They turned on the rebels. Amidst the clashing and fighting, bright Guardian steel rang strong and their front tightened into formation. They pushed. The front of the mob wavered.

  No, no . . .

  The fighting had spilled back up the Flatrock. Red cloaks flashed as the Circle joined the fray. Hamanda leapt, hacking at the first Guardians to scale the Flatrock.

  Mani and Adar pounced on the wounded Umaala. Mani’s feet flashed, her body danced. She ducked the Guardian Lord’s powerful blow, dodged his backswing. Her keshu sank into his side—and stuck.

  She stumbled. Umaala hardly seemed to notice the blade jammed into his ribs. With a shout, he swung and took off her arm.

  My breath caught.

  Not Mani!

  Adar hacked at the Guardian Lord. Umaala’s keshu rang up to block him, shivering Adar down to his feet. The foreman staggered. Umaala roared and bowled him over. His blade arced, winking in the hot sun.

  Adar’s head rolled across the Flatrock and tumbled into the lake with a splash.

  I stared in horror at the sudden and brutal end, words dead on my lips. I watched as Umaala ab’Krushaya wavered, soaked in his own blood. He looked straight at me. And in the last flicker of his eyes, I saw neither hatred nor anger—only burning grief.

  Then he fell.

  Guardians roared their vengeance, some flooding onto the Flatrock, others now laying into the mob, keshu swinging like harvest hooks. Dimly I was aware of Jarethyn and Neraia shouting orders. Mani was pinned to the ground, blood pumping out of her severed arm. Jil threw down his keshu in surrender. Hamanda was gone. The rebels stood long enough for a dozen or so to die. Then they broke and fled. The Guardians pursued, seizing prisoners, cutting others down.

  I just stared. My eyes fell around me—blood and shrieking and a stench rising like a wave of heat. The Flatrock burned under my heels.

  I saw a man being hacked at from all sides as he tried to escape into the lake. His blood became the ripples. His body jerked and flopped like a sack of meat.

  I saw a woman on the ground, screaming into the mud as feet trampled her.

  I saw Umaala lying dead.

  I saw my own knuckles, white around the hilt of my keshu. And the Guardians advanced on me.

  “Vanya!”

  The familiar voice shook me from my stupor. I glanced to the side, startled. Kulnethar heaved himself up the side of the Flatrock, bruised and muddied, but alive, desperate to escape the tumult below.

  “Take him!” Neraia’s voice pierced the noise. I was backed against the edge of the Flatrock, Guardians closing in on me, Guardians below. I brandished my keshu.

  “Wait!” Kulnethar cried, throwing himself between us, arms outstretched. “No more bloodshed! Vanya, put away your sword. Guardians, wait. Have mercy—”

  I didn’t hear the end of his plea.

  I slammed my keshu into my sheath, turned, and threw myself off the Flatrock.

  The Avanir’s water rushed over me. The world vanished. Darkness enclosed me. Everything went distant and cold, like a dream. I struck the bottom, knees and hands digging into the mud. I wanted to stay there. To sink and never rise. To pretend the last few moments of my life had never happened.

  But they had.

  And what now? Defeat? Death? A meaningless end?

  The desert. I had to escape. If I could make it into the desert, then I could regroup. I could hide in Anuai for months. I could live in exile. Form a new plan.

  I began to crawl along the bottom of the lake. I used my arms and legs like shovels, driving the mud behind me. Desperately putting as much distance between myself and the throng of Guardians at the Flatrock.

  As if from a long ways away, I heard shouts, a dull roar.

  I pushed harder. My lungs began to burn for air.

  The surface drew nearer. I tried to stay below as long as I could, to stay hidden in the murky water. If I could make it to the edge of the fields, I might be able to hide in the old stalks.

  I moved faster. My whole body was screaming to take a breath. Get free. Get out.

  I gave one final push, then broke the surface of the water, gasping and dripping, my feet already pumping towards the fields.

  A cry from my left. Answered on my right. Someone stood in my way. Benji’s keshu was drawn. He planted himself in the shallows, trembling, even as I ran at him. I reached for my keshu. I had no time to stop, to think.

  Yl’avah, forgive me.

  Benji fell into back stance. I saw the horror in his eyes. The determination. My keshu slammed against his, knocking him back with a clanging charge.

  He held his ground, feet shifting to absorb the blow, moving with me. He said nothing, twisting around and around, cutting off my escape again. But I saw the look in his eyes. Like I had taken his foolish young heart and stomped it into the dust.

  “Stay back!” his voice cracked, wavering, though his stance was strong.

  “Please, Benji,” I groaned. “Don’t make me kill you.”

  He shook his head. “No. I . . . I won’t let you get away. Traitor.”

  Then he pounced on me with a scream.

  I tried to dodge his blow. He spun back, blade whirring, almost slicing me in half. He was fast. He had excellent technique. I had no choice but to block and fall back. Losing another precious moment. Another. I swore, stumbling into the water. My feet were not as fast as they should be. Sluggish, harried.

  But I had been fighting Sumadi longer than him.

  He attacked again.

  I parried and slammed him forward, using my larger strength, throwing him off balance. He stumbled. I scored his ribs. He cried out, staggering away. I pressed. Hacked at him, forcing my advantage.

  He was scrambling back, and back—out of the water and into the fields, barely deflecting my
attacks. Growing tired. Sloppy. Desperate. Fear woke in his eyes. Real, paralyzing fear.

  I charged him. He barely managed to block and our keshu slid blade to blade. Mine was a breath from his throat. I wavered.

  I should kill him. One push. A final thrust.

  I hooked his leg, intending to trip him instead.

  Abruptly, he dropped his keshu and seized my blade with both his hands—it happened so fast. He grappled, twisted, ignoring the blood streaming down his arm, ignoring the pain.

  Someone leapt on me from behind, arms grabbing. A fist drove into my side.

  I doubled over. Benji wrenched my keshu away. I gasped, my hands empty, naked.

  And the Guardians fell on me.

  “Take him alive!” I heard Neraia shout.

  I roared in frustration, I twisted and fought, even as blows hammered into me, bruising and hard. A fist knocked me to my knees with a splash, rough hands held me on every side.

  A red cloaked swirled into view. Umaala?

  No. It was Jarethyn. Umaala was dead. Umaala was . . .

  The Guardian Lord said nothing. He only struck me across the face, over and over. I could feel the anger in his fists. The blows rocked my head, spreading and flashing across my eyes, drowning me. Pain enveloped me. I welcomed it—

  “Jarethyn, that’s enough.” Neraia’s voice was close. “Take him away.”

  I spat blood from my mouth, could feel it running down my face. Arms hauled me to my feet, and I staggered up. I glimpsed Benji standing off to one side, breathing hard, still holding my keshu in both of his bleeding hands like he didn’t know what to do with it.

  “C’mon,” I heard a gruff voice. It was ab’Tanadu. I groaned. I wanted to speak, to defend myself, but my mouth was too thick with blood.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  The fight was draining out of me. I slumped into ab’Tanadu’s grip, shaking my head over and over. He said nothing else, just led me out of the water, back towards the Flatrock and the main road.

  Jarethyn and Neraia walked ahead of us, cutting a swathe through the stunned stragglers that remained. I felt their eyes on me. I passed Labourers and Guardians. I passed white robes. They murmured, whispering, already disowning me.

  Protect them.

  I saw the blood that wept across the ground, still spreading from the Flatrock in slow, gentle rivers.

  “I’m sorry, Tala.” My head swayed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  I had failed.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Hyranna Elduna

  Hyranna was long past her limits. Her lungs burned. She wept. She shrank inside. And she ran.

  Then Garden jerked her to a stop. She came up, gasping. She would have collapsed if he hadn’t seized her, holding her up. He changed directions, walking now with firm, deliberate steps. She stumbled ahead of him.

  “What do you want?” She tried to swallow her tears. “You got what you were after, now let me go!”

  He kicked her in the leg, a sharp, painful bite. “I’m in a foul mood, and if you want to find out how bad, keep asking me stupid questions. Move!”

  He steered her towards the river.

  “You mean to drown me?”

  “Into the water!” he snapped, shoving her. “Walk in the shallows. That way.”

  She did as he ordered. Splashing through the muddy river, she realized the water was pulling past her, washing away the signs of their passage. If anyone was following, they wouldn’t be able to track them.

  “That’s right, Todaby. No one’s coming for you—not that Manturian bitch, not those slaves, no one. And you’re gonna pay for what they did. You’ll be my assurance, case someone gets this shiny stone into their heads and thinks to come after it, seyah?”

  “I’m going to kill you,” Hyranna said. It came out before she could stop it, flat and toneless.

  He laughed. Then he yanked her back, breathing his filthy stench down her neck, the barrel of his gun pressed hard below her ear.

  “I’d expect you to try. Maybe you’ll get lucky one day, darling. Just don’t expect me to make it easy on you. You hear? I might say something about cooperating and doing as you’re told, but somehow, I don’t think it’ll make a difference. Now keep moving.”

  After stumbling on and on through the cold river, soaking herself until she was numb and shivering, Garden pulled her up. “There’s a dandy place to hide, don’t you think?” he said.

  A bank jutted out, with a soft hollow on the far side. “Don’t tell me I don’t care, seeing as you’re all worn out. Why don’t we take a break and wait for this to blow over, seyah? And in case anyone is following us, we’ll get a good look at ‘em first as they walk past.”

  Hyranna said nothing. She was out of choices. She was weary and sick. No one would come for her—but sooner or later, Garden would make a mistake. There was only one of him, and he was shaken. His whole gang had been killed, his slaves escaped. Now he was unpredictable, dangerous, sloppy.

  Once they made it to the cover of the hollow, Garden shoved her to the ground.

  “Now you keep yourself there, quiet. You hear?” He unslung his pack and tossed it at her. It hit her in the stomach. “Open it up. Find yourself some rope, Todaby.”

  “Rope?”

  “That’s right. If I heard you right not too long ago, you threatened to kill me. Precautions. Understand, I’m the surviving type, and so are you, it seems. So we play accordingly.”

  She glared at him. “Shoot me and you lose your assurance.”

  “Pity.” His eyes were like stone. “Now rope.”

  Hyranna dug into the pack. Her fingers found all sorts of thing, even a sheathed knife, and for an instant she was tempted.

  “Ah, ah!” he wiggled his gun at her. “Just the rope, little Todaby. Don’t think I don’t got my eye on you.”

  She found the rope. She hesitated, thinking how much harder it’d be to kill him if she was tied up, but again, she didn’t have a choice. She pulled it out.

  “Kratofan. Now toss the pack at my feet, easy now. That’s it. Now the rope, darling.” He held out a hand and she passed it to him. “Good. Now face to the ground and hands behind you.”

  “Tie me up if you want, but I’m not going to make it easy for you.”

  His eye twitched. “And here I was about to say how cooperative you’re being. Maybe I need to repeat myself.”

  “You’re not going to shoot me over this. Can you tie up a girl by yourself, or not?”

  His face went livid. “Little bunta filth. You wanna test my patience?” He jammed his gun back in his holster, strode up to her and struck her hard. She knew it was coming. Still, it knocked the breath out of her. She hit the ground, pain burning along her face. She gasped like she was coming up for air. But now was her chance. Now.

  She tried to push herself up, then his weight landed on her, hands seizing one arm, trying to force her onto her stomach. She fought him, the other hand grasping for his gun. It was close. So close. Her fingers brushed over it, almost wrapped around the butt. It came loose—then he jerked her around and it slipped out of her grasp, landing beneath him.

  Her surge of hope was dashed just as quickly. He slammed her face into the dirt and yanked her arms behind her. She felt the ropes lashing around her wrists. She fought, tried to kick free, but his weight pressed her into the ground, and he pulled them tight. Fingers dug into her arms. He grabbed a fistful of her hair, twisting painfully.

  “You’ll regret that, Todaby, I’ll see that you do.”

  She clenched her teeth, refusing to cry out.

  “You wanna play games with me?”

  “Let go!”

  “Every time you fight me, every smart word out of your mouth, I’ll make you hurt somewhere new. I’ll even let you pick! So what’ll it be? Where should I cut you first?”

  “Garden!” a voice rang through the hollow. “Get off her, you sack of shit.”

  Garden jerked up. A hiss went out of his mouth like
a cat and he sprang to his feet, reached for his holster. It was empty.

  There was a bang. Two. Three. He staggered back, fell against the bank, stood there for a moment, mouth working soundlessly, face frozen in shock. Three holes opened in his chest like flowers, blooming a dark, thick red. He gave a bark of incredulous laughter, took a tottering step forward. And fell.

  There was a flood of silence. Hyranna couldn’t believe it. He was dead.

  She twisted her head around and saw Jerad. He was standing, legs apart, gun clutched in both hands. His lacerated arms start to shake, but his face was like stone. When Garden didn’t move again, he took a deep, shuddering breath and dropped the gun.

  “Anna!” The cry burst out of him, then he stumbled over to her. He was covered with an alarming amount of blood. “Anna. Anna, are you alright?”

  She nodded, kept nodding because she couldn’t speak. A pressure was welling up in her chest. More than relief. More than gratitude. Jerad cut the rope off and the moment she was free, she threw her arms around him and wept.

  The force of her tears shocked even her, but they came from days and days. They poured out of her, uncontrollable, and Jerad just held her, gripping her like he couldn’t believe she was actually there.

  “You came back for me,” he said, his voice low in her ear. “What were you thinking? Maker above, I was so scared. What were you thinking? Never mind that. Never mind. It’s over. We’re safe. Anna, you’re safe. It’s over.”

  Feet ran up, pounding over the mud, and then halted, and through her blurred vision, she saw Alutan. Alutan? But he had been shot. She could have sworn he’d been shot . . .

  He stood, watching, taking in the scene. He didn’t interrupt. He said nothing.

  Hyranna’s convulsions subsided. She gasped for breath.

  “You . . . you shot him,” was the first stupid thing out of her mouth.

  Jerad nodded. “I did. And I’d do it again if anyone threatened you. Oh, Anna, I almost believed him, almost thought you were dead!”

  “I think I was!” She laughed. It burst out of her, a turbulence of emotion more than humour, but it felt good. It felt good to laugh. She laughed again, and he joined in, then gave a sudden, painful cry.