The Dew of Flesh

by Gregory Ashe

  Chapter 18

  Abasseyed the seir. “What do you want from me?”

  The darkness in the cavern pressed around him. A seir, but he looked like any other man. Tair fend, what will he do to me?

  “You already gave me more than I wanted,” Eyl said with a grin and pointed to his broken arm.

  He came closer, and Abass stepped back, trying to keep his distance. With a thud, Abass hit his head against the boulder behind him.

  “That hurt?”

  “You’re very considerate for a seir,” Abass said. He was beyond the terror that kept him silent; now fear made him flippant. “Aren’t you going to strip my flesh and eat me alive? Or drink my blood? Or am I to be served at a meal? If so, then we’re wasting good roasting time here.”

  Eyl looked at him, dark eyes wide with amazement, and then burst out laughing. The noise echoed so loudly in the cave that Abass was sure the guards would come to investigate. And find whatever’s left of me.

  “Tair around us,” Eyl said, still laughing to himself. “I’m not a seir, boy. I think the seiri have claws for hands, right? Isn’t that the story?”

  “I’m not a boy,” Abass said. “I’ve seen twenty summer harvests. And if you’re not a seir, what are you?”

  “My apologies, I know you’re not a boy. I wish I knew what I was. It’s a good question.” Eyl’s eyes went dark for a moment. He was a stout, rugged man with a well-trimmed beard. “We’ve spent enough blood here, though. The wights will come along soon enough, and I don’t have any taste for trying to keep both of us alive with a broken arm. Unless you’d rather try to find your way in the dark?”

  A clipped noise, stone striking stone, prevented Abass’s response. He felt his heart pound again.

  “Too slow, I suppose,” Eyl said. “Can you run? Tair, what am I asking, you can barely stand. As fast as you can then.”

  Abass swallowed. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Wights. Not seiri, perhaps, but bad enough. The click of stone on stone grew louder. It came from the tunnel that Hash had followed.

  “This way,” Eyl said. “Shout if you see one.”

  The stout man started toward the tunnel he had come from, and Abass hurried after. Abass tried to pass the lantern forward, but Eyl refused it with a shake of his head. “Keep watch for them.”

  They moved as quickly as Abass could walk, which was not fast. “They’re not fast, are they?” he asked, flashing the lantern back to reveal an empty tunnel.

  “What’s that?” Eyl asked. He walked smoothly in the darkness, negotiating the uneven stone floor without problem.

  “Are they fast? The wights?” Abass asked. “I’ve heard soldiers say they aren’t too bad, because they’re slow.”

  “They’re fast enough,” Eyl said. “If they’ve fed anytime recently. The only time soldiers catch them is when they’re near-starved. The soldiers don’t do much beside smash them to pieces with hammers. A good stonecutter could do a better job.”

  The words were no comfort. The clatter of stone on stone followed them—distant at first, then closer. The sound grew louder with every beat of Abass’s heart.

  “Careless,” Eyl said.

  “What did we do?”

  “Not us. The wights,” Eyl said. “Must be hungry, cause they’re making enough noise to raise the dead. They’ve got our scent now. Open the shutter on the lantern. If one of them gets behind me, shout.”

  Abass fumbled at the shutter, the hot metal singeing his fingers as he pried it open. Warm, yellow light shot out, pooling across the stone. They stood in another of the large caverns, although this one was free of boulders. The roof of the cave was lost in shadows. Suddenly, Abass caught a whiff of something.

  Fresh air, heavy with the scent of night.

  “We’re almost out of here,” he said. “Let’s run for it.”

  “Where’s the fun in that?” Eyl asked. A grim smile split the man’s bearded face. “Besides, Fadhra is going to tell Maq that a half-starved boy took me by surprise and nearly killed me. I’m not going to add running from a few wights to the mix.”

  “Don’t you have a sword or something?” Abass asked. The click of stone was louder now. Almost on top of them.

  “Wouldn’t do much good against a wight,” Eyl said. “And it makes things too easy with the guards.”

  Tair bless me, Abass thought. I’ve fallen in with a madman. Another madman.

  “Remember,” Eyl said. “Shout if one of them is behind me.”

  Then, with a rush of air, the man vanished. Abass flashed the lantern around the cavern, even sending the light straight up, to dance among the stalactites, but he saw no trace of Eyl. Father take me, what are these people?

  As he brought the lantern down again, the light fell across something. In daylight, in a crowded square, Abass might have mistaken it for a statue. A strange statue, perhaps—a rather ugly man with sunken eyes and wasted flesh, a statue covered with mold. Here, in the darkness, there was no mistaking it. Fear spoke true. A wight.

  The creature appeared to be wearing clothes made out of stone. It reared back, as though surprised at the light, then settled down into a crouch, long-fingered hands spread wide. The crouch of a hunter.

  Abass readied the lantern. He wanted to laugh; it was the edge of hysteria. Tair fend, Scribe would be laughing too. Here I am, facing a wight, and all I’ve got is a tair-blessed lantern. He bent and grabbed a chunk of stone, though he doubted it would make much of a difference.

  The wight had not moved. Again, its uncanny resemblance to some strange, plebeian statue struck Abass. He kept the light on it; for all Abass knew, the wight could be afraid of the light. Tair send it’s so.

  Without a noise, aside from the click of stone on stone, the creature launched itself high into the air, straight toward Abass. It disappeared above the lantern light. Abass swung the lantern up and scrambled back, frantic breaths stabbing his side. There was a loud crack above him, and then, a heartbeat later, another to his right.

  Abass turned the lantern. Eyl straddled the wight perhaps a dozen yards away. He brought one big fist—his good arm—down on the wight’s face, and the crack of breaking stone rang in the chamber. The wight made no noise, but it scrabbled at the floor, its fingers raking long furrows in the rock. The wall next to Eyl was dented in and webbed with cracks, as though some massive weight had struck it.

  Eyl pounded away at the wight with his good arm, and the snap of breaking stone rang around Abass. Abass watched, mouth open, as the wight’s jaw snapped off. The creature made no noise; it simply continued to thrash and heave, bare fingers slicing through stone as it attempted to find purchase. Eyl looked almost happy—a faint smile appeared behind the beard.

  Over the sound of Eyl’s patient hammering, Abass caught another click. The sound of a wight. He sent the lantern light dancing around the cave. For long heartbeats he could not find it. Then, almost by chance, his eye caught the faintest movement. The creature clung to the wall like a spider, its stony skin blending perfectly with the wall of the cave. Slowly, the wight turned, its head following the beam of light. Cold, hard eyes locked with Abass.

  “Eyl,” Abass shouted. “There’s another one.”

  The crack and snap of Eyl’s demolition continued. “Course there is,” Eyl said. “Tair know there are enough of these things around here. They always seem to end up below the temple for some reason.” A loud, thunderous pop, and then he resumed speaking. “The pits, I think.”

  More out of instinct than anything else, Abass realized the wight had tensed itself. A heartbeat later and flew away from the wall. Toward him. The crack of its movement followed.

  Abass threw himself to one side, lantern still gripped in one hand. A crash echoed from where he had just stood. The lantern hit the ground with a crack, and flames burst up as the oil pooled and caught fire. Abass hit the ground hard. Pain, almost familiar now, ripped through him.

  He kept moving, dragging the ruin of the lantern with him as fire spr
ead on the stone, lapping eagerly at the spilled fuel. In the flickering light, Abass could see the wight stagger back from the stone wall where a network of fine lines marked the impact of its landing.

  “Eyl!”

  No answer.

  The wight turned at the sound of his voice and crouched again. Abass gritted his teeth. Fear still raced through him, but he could smell fresh air. Freedom, close enough to taste. He shifted the lantern to his good arm and drew it back, ready to throw.

  The creature launched itself into the air.

  Abass threw the ruined lantern, the remaining flames fluttering like streamers in the air. Then he ran straight ahead. Toward Eyl.

  For one brief heartbeat he saw the lantern strike the wight, right in the face, the clang of metal ringing in the cave, and then shadows closed in again. He heard the wight land behind him, felt the tremors in the stone at its weight. Abass did not look back. He leaped the pool of flame and oil and ran, his broken ribs like a knife in his side.

  Air stirred around him, and suddenly Eyl stood before him. The stout man’s broken arm hung at a strange angle, and a deep cut across one cheek sent blood running down the front of him. Abass skidded to a stop, wincing as the soles of his feet scraped and tore on the rough stone.

  “One behind me,” he gasped.

  Eyl no longer smiled. He disappeared in a blur of displaced air, and Abass heard two loud cracks behind him. A heartbeat later, Eyl reappeared. The stout man’s face was drawn.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “Can you make it?”

  “For now,” Abass said. Tair bless me if I’m going to stop this close to the exit.

  Eyl nodded. He led them toward the next tunnel. At the foot of the opening lay one of the wights, its face scarred and blackened with soot. It had been broken in half. Its legs lay a few yards away, almost lost in shadow. Abass stared, half horrified, half fascinated, at the mixture of stony organs that lay pooled below the creatures shattered torso—as though some master sculptor had recreated human innards.

  “Tair fend,” he whispered. “What are they?”

  “Only the First Father knows,” Eyl said. “They’ve been here forever, and no matter how many we kill, there are always more.”

  “Blood and stone,” Abass said. “Tair help us.”

  “That would be a nice change,” Eyl said. He seemed upset, and his arm had been damaged more during the fight.

  “Are you alright?” Abass asked.

  “I am for now,” Eyl said. “I need to return home quickly.”

  “That goes for both of us,” Abass said.

  They entered the tunnel and the light from the pool of oil faded quickly, until, after running into the wall of the tunnel for the third time, Abass finally had to stop.

  “Eyl,” he said. “Father take me, I can’t see anything. Where are you?”

  “Right here,” Eyl said. Eyl grabbed his arm and set Abass’s hand on one shoulder. “I’ll go slow.”

  Abass followed as best he could, cursing the darkness, the pits, and—most of all—Qatal. He was too tired for fear, but anger still burned away, deep inside him. Qatal, who had betrayed Isola, betrayed Abass’s family, for what? The man was already in the upper echelon of priests; Abass’s father’s money had seen to that. What else could the tair offer him? There were stories that the tair could restore life to the departed, or youth to the aged—could bring forth life and strength in a man, the way they did to the land. But Qatal was a man in his prime, and who would he save that he would trade his own wife’s life?

  “What’s wrong?” Eyl asked.

  “What?” Abass said.

  “You’re trying to rip my shoulder off. Are your wounds hurting?”

  Abass let out a ragged laugh. “Tair help me, I can’t remember what it felt like not to be hurting, but it’s no worse now than before. I’m just . . . thinking.”

  “Who is it? The guards who brought you in? Messed you up?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You going to track them down? Make them pay?” The other man’s voice was neutral, as even as the darkness around them.

  “Sure.” Scribe would have something to say about that, for sure.

  “Tair help them, then,” Eyl said.

  “He didn’t bother to help me,” Abass said. “But maybe he loves the eses more.”

  With a start, Abass realized he could make out Eyl’s outline. Air, fresh and clean began to stir around him, and underneath it Abass smelled, in contrast, the stench of the caves behind him. Like something dead and hidden away, to breed rot in darkness. The tunnel curved, and suddenly Abass could see, against the mouth of the cave, a spangled sky.

  “Careful up here,” Eyl said. “We made a bit of a mess when we came in.”

  At the mouth of the cave, shattered boards and timbers were strewn across the floor, as though tossed aside by a child. Abass picked his way across carefully, testing each step to avoid nails and splinters. Two steps of stone after the boards, then dirt, and then grass, cold and soft as silk against Abass’s torn feet. He slid to the ground, ignoring the sharp stab in his side.

  “Tair bless me,” he said. “I’d almost forgotten.”

  Khi’ilan spread out below him, yellow candlelight filling windows, street lanterns dotting the darkness. Even with only the stars, it was a world of light and color to him—the wooden homes painted every shade of the rainbow, elaborate murals on some, rough charcoal etchings on the poorer dwellings. And between them, jutting up into the sky like ancient teeth, the Sleeping Palaces. He knew which one was the Perch. It sat almost directly opposite him, near the heart of the old city. Which meant . . .

  Behind him, less than a quarter mile, rose the packed-dirt walls of the temple and palace compound. “Tair fend,” Abass said. “So many people.”

  Eyl looked down at him and said, “No one knows. The rebellion is a convenient excuse—soldiers lost in battle, camp followers. It’s easy for them.”

  “You know, though.”

  “We know.” Eyl’s face was dark as he looked up at the palace. “Come on; I can’t leave you here.”

  He reached down with his good arm and pulled Abass to his feet. Together they made their way down the hill, passing beneath the scattered ash and elm. Everything smelled new—like life poured back into Abass’s lungs. He found himself walking faster, injuries forgotten in the beauty of the outside world.

  Eyl, however, seemed slower than ever. He walked with a limp now, and he clutched his injured arm protectively. As they passed under the shadow of another wide-limbed sycamore, Eyl let out a groan and leaned up against the bole of the tree.

  “Are you alright?” Abass asked.

  “Just took too long,” Eyl said, but his face was pale, and sweat covered his brow. “And I didn’t plan ahead. That’s Fadhra for you, though—one moment you’re having drinks and laughing, the next she’s off like summer lightning, determined to rescue some people from the pits. Tair, what a woman.”

  “Let me help you,” Abass said. He eased Eyl away from the trunk and supported the man with his good shoulder as best he could.

  “Tair fend,” Eyl said. “I don’t know if this is the worst part, or the dreams.” He sounded as though he were asleep, but he matched Abass step for step as they staggered down the grassy hill. “The dreams, Father take me. What if I don’t come back?”

  Abass shifted Eyl’s arm on his shoulder, trying to adjust the man’s weight, and his fingers brushed something like cold fire under the man’s shirt. Something around the man’s upper arm; he could see it, an almost indiscernible bulge under the cloth. Cold as the foreign winters Abass had heard about. Tair fend, who is he?

  Slowly, painfully, they reached the bottom of the hill, where the grass leveled out for a good quarter mile before it reached the city wall. The massive structure rose a good thirty feet into the air, the stone smoothed and worn by time. The only stonework in the city aside from the Sleeping Palaces and, like the Palaces, a remnant of the old city
. When Khi’ilan had been the city of the gods-made-flesh.

  They passed through the gates that were never closed, following the dirt road into the city. After a few blocks of well-painted stables and inns, the appearance of the buildings began to shift. Faded, peeling paint failed to mask the poor carpentry of these buildings—mostly taverns and warehouses, with narrow tenements squeezed in between them. Old Truth. The streets still had traffic; the number of people passing through Old Truth never changed day or night, although their constituencies did. Abass recognized more than one group of men. He tried to keep his head down; he did not work in Old Truth for a reason.

  “Might be better to hurry up,” Abass said. “Don’t suppose you can just race home like you were doing in the caverns?”

  “Sorry,” Eyl said, speech slurred. If Abass hadn’t known better, he would have thought the man were drunk. “Close though. At the next well, go left.”

  Abass followed his instructions. More than one group of thugs noticed him. Abass even heard his name once or twice. He heard Eyl’s more, though, and—to Abass’s surprise—no one approached him. A nasty suspicion started to settle in his gut. Eyl was well-known enough to keep Truthers from knifing Abass, and that meant he was dangerous. Very dangerous. Which means I’ll keep our association as short as possible.

  Just past the edge of Old Truth, Eyl brought him up short in front of a large, respectable-looking house. Neatly trimmed paint, a stylish mural of a harvest on the east wall, three stories high without looking like it would fall apart in a summer breeze. A rich man’s house. Abass knew and liked this kind of house, which often had lonely windows and overflowing coffers, if one knew where to look.

  “Come in,” Eyl said. He opened the door without ceremony and staggered inside.

  Abass followed, shutting the door behind him. A candle burned on a side table, giving enough light only to confirm Abass’s impression. Oil paintings lined a staircase, with oval mirrors facing back from the other wall. Silver candlestick. Tair help me, if the fool lives alone, I could make up for time lost in a single night. Abass squashed the thought after a moment; he didn’t like the idea of an angry Eyl—or Fadhra—coming looking for him.

  “Upstairs,” Eyl said. He led him up and to a dark oak door and knocked listlessly.

  “Maq,” he said. “Maq open up. I brought you one. I think you’ll like him.”

  Abass edged back. He didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Maq! Come on!”

  The stairs were close. Abass glanced backward and felt his heart fall. A man with long, dark hair stood at the base of the stairs, glaring up at him with a single eye, an extravagant blue-and-gold scarf covering the other.

  “I think I’ll get going,” Abass said. Tair, how could I be so stupid? Why rescue someone from the pits? He could hear Scribe’s voice in his head, answering him. Well, Abass, you don’t rescue them, you take them, because no one will notice they’re missing. He cursed himself for a fool.

  “Stay there,” Eyl said him. “Maq!”

  The door swung open, and light flooded the hallway. Abass recognized the man in the doorway. Blond hair gone mostly to white. Eyes a startling shade of blue, like foreign ice. Tall, but even more importantly, a bearing of irresistible authority. Maq Qamar. Tun-esis of Khi’ilan. More than a king. The mouth of the gods-made-flesh.

  “Your holiness,” Abass said. He fell to one knee.

  “That’s not necessary,” Maq said. He stepped past and Eyl and helped Abass to his feet. “Apparently my inferiors have been slow about their business. I regret to inform you that I’m dead.”