by Gregory Ashe
Chapter 60
“Bind him and take him to the temple,” a woman’s voice said. Abass lay still on the floor of the sawmill, wounds aching, as the eses continued to move in around him. Let them think he was still unconscious for a few moments. It was not hard to feign; the sudden realization that Qatal had betrayed them—not just Abass, but Isola, and Fadhra as well—was worse than any wound. It made no sense; days of working together, pretending to search for Isola. Qatal saving Abass’s life. All an elaborate hoax. But for what?
Voices filled the air around him, and Abass forced himself to listen.
“Perfectly executed,” the woman said. “Find me when you have him secured, and bring me his brachal. We’ll see if Balat’s fears of voramancy have any basis.”
The thick, ruined voice spoke again. “And if he is a voramancer?”
“There are enough of you to handle him, Sarem. And, in case you have forgotten, you are Renewed. Don’t disappoint me again.”
The faint rush of displaced air that washed over him told Abass that someone had raced away with enhanced speed. They would come for him now; he would have only one chance. Abass would take as many of them with him as he could.
The scrape of leather on the gritty floor sounded next to his head. A hand gripped Abass’s forearm, on top of the brachal. It was the moment Abass had been waiting for.
Ripping his dew forward, Abass gripped the arm with his good hand and kicked himself into the air. With his injured hand he swept the dagger free from his belt and brought it around in one smooth motion. Abass continued to fly upward from the force of his own kick, ever so slowly, the dew enhancing his speed and perception. The blade caught the folds of the man’s throat, and a spray of blood followed behind the bright steel.
Now upside down as his momentum carried him, Abass yanked the dagger through the man’s throat and, at the same time, pulled on the man’s arm. Hard. The crack of bone and popping joints filled the air ever so slowly. Abass swung back to the ground as his victim flipped up, swung off his feet by the force of Abass’s pull.
As the man flew into the air, Abass caught a glance of his face. Much of it had melted away, leaving only mounds of smooth, shiny flesh where nose and ear had been. The left corner of his mouth had fused together. The other side of his face, though, was whole, normal, and the man’s blue eyes were wide with surprise. In the time between heartbeats, Abass recognized him. The Renewed from the hold, burned by that strange purple fire. Qatal had not killed him. Of course not. Qatal was a traitor. The dagger slid free of the Renewed’s throat with a last jet of blood and froth, and Abass hit the ground heels first. His dew surged and drew back, a relentless tide.
Before the Renewed’s body could hit the ground, Abass dashed toward the closes su-esis, dagger blurring into a long streak of metal with his dew enhanced speed. The blade caught the su-esis across the throat, and he staggered back. More blood filled the air, a few warm drops landing on Abass’s arm before he moved on, toward the next su-esis.
At the muffled thud of the Renewed’s body hitting the ground, the su-eses sprang into motion, released from the shock that had held them. Two tall, muscular su-eses with identical features swept toward Abass, the contours of their bodies blurring as they sprinted toward him. Abass’s heart stammered in a frenzy. He had used up a lot of dew to take out the Renewed, but the su-eses were well-rested, full of dew, and moving fast. Faster than he was. Abass darted back as best he could, leg screaming pain as he put weight on it. He put the razor wires between himself and the su-eses. They separated, coming at him around the wooden supports. Abass balanced the dagger; he could throw it, perhaps take one of them. As always, though, the thought brought back memories of Isola, of those too-wide eyes as the dagger found her flesh. He flipped the hilt back into his hand, but the indecision had cost him precious heartbeats.
The twins drew their massive blades, holding them easily. Abass shook his head; dew enhanced the body, but having a lot of muscle already didn’t hurt. The twins could probably break him in half if they wanted to. The other su-eses had spread out across the length of the mill; they were in no hurry. A dozen of them against one man. Abass shook his head, and the twin to his right leapt forward, still holding the wide stance of a trained swordsman.
Anger flooded Abass, the bloodlust and rage of the dew mixing with the pain of betrayal. He might die in this mill, but he was not going to die like a cornered animal. From deep within him, underneath civilization, education, underneath the trappings of humanity, lurked something raw. Instinctual. The dew brought that out, channeled it through him, blanketing rational thought. Abass bared his teeth.
Six foot long blades carved the air in grey swathes. Abass pulled the dew forward, focused it on speed. Pain blossomed, darkness gathered, and Abass felt himself begin to shake as his heart thrummed like a taut wire. But the blades slowed, each moment clear, discernible. Abass waited, letting the twin race toward him. The first sword whistled through the air toward his neck.
Dew enhanced the body. And Abass was fast.
He stepped forward with all the speed of the dew, toward the oncoming blade, until he felt the slow whisper of the blade’s passage brush his cheek. Abass fell back, letting his speed carry him forward along the floor—between the twin’s legs. The blade slid through the air above him with the sound of shears through silk. As he slid along the sawdust covered boards, Abass brought the knife up and across the inside of the man’s thigh, just below his crotch. Without enough dew to strengthen him, the force of the contact ripped the blade free from Abass’s hand. Blood, hot and foul, sprayed his face as he continued along the floor. Fire flared in his back as splinters from the rough boards ripped his shirt and tore at his unenhanced flesh.
Abass’s dew sputtered out, the last surges matching his heart with each painful stammer. Cold sweat broke out all over him, and his legs trembled like a new-born colt. Slowly, painfully—his broken finger throbbing hot as a coal—Abass rolled onto his feet, groaning as the splinters in his back jabbed and twisted with each movement. Everything took too long, moved too slowly.
He grabbed the pouch at his belt, but with his broken finger Abass could barely grab the knot, let alone pull it loose. The cords slipped away as pain lanced through his hand. He reached for the pouch again and glanced up. One of the twins lay on the ground, hand clamped around his thigh, as blood pooled around him.
“Help,” he shouted.
His twin’s face mirrored his panic. The su-esis hesitated for a moment, his gaze moving between his brother bleeding out on the floor and Abass. Precious moments.
Abass found the bag, clutched the cords with uninjured fingers. He was dexterous, but exhaustion, and the sudden shock of the dew leaving his system, made him shake like a leaf in a storm. The cords gave, slowly, loosening.
Abass’s heart hammered, as though he were trying to lift an anvil; his hands spasmed, suddenly useless. The pouch fell to the floor.
The twin decided. With a speed almost invisible to Abass’s unenhanced eyes, the huge blades flickered into the su-esis’s hands. He took a step. That was all it would take; with dew-enhanced speed, the blades would find Abass before his eyes could track the su-esis.
Sawdust whipped up into the air, stinging Abass’s eyes and blinding him. The clang of metal on metal, harsh and dissonant, rang through the room. Wood cracked and splintered.
Abass blinked, trying to clear his eyes. He was not dead. Perhaps they had decided to take him prisoner after all, as instructed.
Eyes tearing, Abass stared and wiped his face. One twin still lay on the floor, the pool of blood beneath him growing, his face white and strained. The other was nowhere to be seen, but to the right, a door had been torn off its hinges and lay halfway inside the next room, fractured in a dozen places. A single yelp came from inside the room, and then all was silent.
Fadhra. She had come to rescue him, the stupid woman.
The other su-eses—the ten of them still standing—flickered an
d blurred as they moved too quickly for Abass to see. He paid them no attention. Body protesting, every inch of him throbbing, Abass dropped to his knees and grabbed the pouch. He tore at it, frantic, hands spasming, heart buzzing inside him. He feared, for a moment, that the crash after so many hours—days—of using the dew, without any real rest to speak of, might kill him.
Somehow, one nail torn loose and blood running down his hand, Abass got the pouch open. Sounds of fighting, screams filled the air. He popped a cube of dew into his mouth. It dissolved into the heavy, rich oil that coated tongue and throat, bursting into wonderful, familiar warmth inside him. Pain receded; distantly he heard the pop and clack of splinters falling from the wounds on his back to hit the rough boards. Everything seemed to return to normal speed around him, and the dew-light returned.
Someone was moving incredibly fast, even for his dew-enhanced vision. Fadhra was fast, perhaps even fast enough for this, but she was taking a terrible risk. She must be funneling all her dew into her speed, although Abass had never seen any of the other sarkomancers manipulate dew the way he did. Perhaps she only did it now because she knew the risks.
Two more of the su-eses lay dead, both sliced clean in half, both at the waist. Their torsos sat a few inches from their legs, and their bowels had sprayed out and soaked the sawdust and boards with bile that stung the air.
At that moment, two more of the su-eses jerked upright, twin blades bursting through their chests as they were stabbed from behind. Six of the twelve dead. The su-eses fell.
Qatal stood there, holding the six foot long blades easily as the bodies slid to the ground.
“Get out of here,” he shouted. “Tell Maq there’s a traitor.”
Without another word, Qatal spun, parrying a su-esis’s thrust as gracefully as if he held a rapier, instead of an oversized greatsword. Abass watched and gaped. Qatal was here. Saving him. Again. For a long moment, Abass thought he might truly be dead, caught in some nightmare world that Axtamalak had never prepared him for. Qatal had not betrayed him. Who had?
Qatal blurred with increased speed, and the blade wove and dipped. He was drawing too deeply on his Renewal, Abass realized. Qatal had rested, recovered something of his strength, but even before his battle with Balat, Qatal had been drained by searching and fighting. Now he was fighting with the speed only a Renewed had, but that revealed his dangerous weakness.
The su-esis’s shout turned into a gurgle as the greatsword plunged into his chest, driving almost in to the hilt. The second greatsword just hung at Qatal’s side, unneeded for the moment. The su-esis fell from the blade and hit the ground with a thump.
Qatal flashed forward, but not as quickly as before. Abass could track him easily this time. The remaining su-eses encircled him, and Qatal backed up toward the wires, keeping the body of the dead Renewed behind him.
“Run,” Qatal shouted.
Abass turned and ran. Two of the su-eses peeled off to follow him. Abass was naturally fast, but he was exhausted, and the fresh infusion of dew did little more than keep him moving. Qatal darted forward, greatswords flashing to take the two su-eses in the back as they focused on Abass.
Abass glanced back.
With impossible grace, the Renewed with the burned face—Sarem, the woman had called him—rose to his feet. Qatal seemed to sense the movement, or heard it, for he turned, greatswords a pair of twin grey blurs, but Sarem was too close and too fast. The massive Renewed’s fist caught Qatal just under the arm. The crack of bone was audible throughout the mill.
Qatal stumbled, but the blades went true. The greatswords struck Sarem—one cleaving head from body in a single blow, the other slicing halfway through the man’s chest. For a moment, Sarem’s headless body wobbled. He took one obscene step and fell, legs thrashing.
The two su-eses grabbed Abass, forcing him to the ground. Abass watched with horror as the remaining su-eses launched themselves at Qatal. Qatal pulled at the stuck blade once, trying to free it, then gave up and turned to face the su-eses empty-handed. From across the room, Abass could see fractured white bone tearing through Qatal’s green robe where Sarem’s fist had caved in Qatal’s chest. Qatal still stood, although his face was almost as white as his hair. He swung once with his remaining greatsword. The nearest su-esis easily deflected the stroke. Then the su-eses were on him, greatswords slashing and carving with a speed that, had they not all been full of dew, would have put them more at risk of hurting each other.
Abass screamed. He thrashed, unable to think, the dew surging through his blood forgotten. Only anger, black as a dewless night, remained. He bucked and heaved. One hand came free, and he clawed at the su-eses. Nothing mattered except reaching Qatal. The blond man had disappeared behind the screen of blurring greatswords and the green robes of the su-eses. He could still be alive. He needed help.
Abass’s guards restrained him again, wrenching his arms back with strength born of dew, and they slammed his head against the scarred floor. Even with the dew in him, dampening pain and injuries, black stars swam in front of Abass’s eyes, and the noise of the sawmill faded to a pinpoint buzz.
The darkness faded, and pain came rushing back in, muted by the dew. The su-eses had separated, and two of them bent over something on the ground. Chains, double looped, held Abass’s arms behind his back, and more held his legs. The su-eses had been prepared for him. Betrayal. It hurt worse than the blow to his head, worse than all his injuries together. And Qatal had died trying to save him.
For a moment, hope kindled in Abass. Qatal was Renewed. If he had enough blood left, he could return, with enough time. The way Sarem had. Tair send that the su-eses would be fools enough to leave Qatal there.
One of the su-eses lifted Abass with one hand and tossed him over his shoulder. The chain coat smelled of rust and bit into Abass’s flesh through the black linen shirt. The last su-eses finished their business on the floor, and one of them walked to one of the wooden supports. He grabbed a rope that Abass had not noticed and pulled.
As the su-esis carried Abass from the sawmill, paying no more heed to him than to a sack of flour, Abass watched as Qatal’s lifeless body was hauled into the air by a rope tied around his ankles. Head down, the man’s long blond hair fell toward the ground, stained pink in parts as blood flowed from a deep cut across Qatal’s throat to splatter into the sawdust below.
Abass’s anger vanished, as quickly as he might have once picked a purse from another man. There one moment, gone the next, with the casual, silent crime of business. Qatal was dead, and the su-eses who remained, faces emotionless, marched from the building, their work completed.
Nothing remained inside Abass to fill up the space that the anger had left. Qatal had died trying to help Abass. Isola would die. What else was left?