by Gregory Ashe
Chapter 69
“Vas,” Siniq-elb said. “We need to go.” The strange sense of vertigo, brought on in part by the lamplight illuminating the pit, made the shadows shift around him. Vas still knelt near Khylar’s corpse, his face as pale as the dead man’s, his dark hair invisible against the darkness of the chamber. “These things could still wake up, Vas. We need to go.”
“Please, Vas,” Mece said.
“Can you help him to his feet?” Siniq-elb asked. “We might have to lead him out of here.”
Mece tugged at Vas’s hand, urging him to his feet, but Vas remained kneeling. The acidic, fermenting smell was stronger now, pressing up against Siniq-elb’s skin, and under it ran something just as sharp, like the opposite edge of a blade. Blood. The dark earth near Khylar’s body showed no sign of the blood; the ground had drunk it up swifter than a parched field under spring rain. The smell, however, remained, a counterpoint to the stench of the pit.
“We need to go, Vas,” Siniq-elb said. “Now! You’re going to get us all killed.”
“Go,” Vas said in a broken in voice. “Just go.”
“What do you mean, go? We’re all going. Right now. Come on, on your feet.”
“I killed him,” Vas said. “Tair help me, I killed him.” He looked up at Siniq-elb, and Siniq-elb realized that Vas was crying.
“It’s alright,” Siniq-elb said. “You saved my life. You had to do it. We can talk about this later—we need to leave before someone finds us down here, or, worse, before the seiri wake up.” He shuffled over to Khylar’s body and flipped the dead man over. Vas let out a low breath, like a dying man, and Mece laid a hand on Siniq-elb’s shoulder, but he ignored both of them. He pushed up Khylar’s sleeve, his fingers found the ivory-colored band. It was smooth under his fingers, smoother even than a riverbed stone. With two quick tugs, he had it off the man’s arm and in his hands.
“What are you doing?” Mece said.
“This was the plan from the start,” Siniq-elb said. “And we need to get out of here while we can; the High Harvest has started, the eses will be busy with that. Now’s our chance to leave.”
Her hand tightened, a warning squeeze, but Siniq-elb ignored her again. He pawed at Khylar’s robes, searching for the leather pouch. It was not tied to Khylar’s belt. It was not in any of the pockets.
“Where’s his dew?” Siniq-elb snapped.
“Don’t you still have the pouch we stole?” Mece said.
“It’s gone. He must have taken it from me when I was unconscious.” Siniq-elb pushed the brachal up onto his forearm. It fit snugly, almost as though made for him, but he felt nothing different. He tossed a few pebbles, throwing them as hard as he could, but it was no different from what he could have done without the brachal.
“Vas, is there any way to use this without the dew?” Siniq-elb said. “Or do you have Khylar’s dew? Did you take it when you took the knife?”
Vas shook his head, tears still running down his cheeks.
“Vas, that’s enough!” Siniq-elb said, surprised to find himself shouting. A hot flush ran across his chest and neck, fear mixed with anger. “I killed him too. And he would have killed me if you hadn’t acted. And most importantly, this isn’t the place for it. Pull yourself together and act like a man for once in your life!”
He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Vas straightened as though struck, his dark eyes going hard for a moment, and then distant.
“I’m sorry, Vas,” Siniq-elb said. “I didn’t mean that. I’m scared, though, and we need to go. Tair help me, where is that man’s dew!” He stretched out his back, trying to release the frustration mounting inside him. “How’s your shoulder? It sounded bad when you hit him.”
“He didn’t bring it,” Vas said, his voice painfully neutral to Siniq-elb’s ears. “The dew. He wouldn’t have brought it, not with this.” He rolled Khylar over and tapped the hilt of the knife buried in Khylar’s back.
“A su-esis wouldn’t trade a knife for the dew,” Siniq-elb said. “You saw what he did to me, and I took him by surprise. And he already had a sword. Come on, we’ll just take the brachal and go. Maybe he has more dew in his room.”
“But the knife,” Vas said. “It’s not just a knife. That’s a salt-blade. It cancels out sarkomancy. He must have thought he was going to fight Dakel; he probably thought he could take Dakel by surprise with the knife, since Dakel wouldn’t expect another su-esis to carry one.”
A salt blade. Siniq-elb had heard of those before. They were legendary weapons, forged in Cenarbasi and Sethora, and worth their weight in gold—if not more. And they were absolutely forbidden in Nakhacevir. Anyone found with a salt-blade in the Thirteen Paths was immediately harvested. Siniq-elb pulled on the handle, trying to loosen the blade, but it was stuck, and no matter how hard he pried, the blade remained lodged in Khylar’s back. After a few more attempts, he let go of the hilt.
“Father’s glory,” Siniq-elb said, “it’s no use. Let’s go.”
He got to his feet with Mece’s help. Vas stood as well, back stiff, and kept himself at arm’s distance from both Siniq-elb and Mece. The stout man probed his shoulder, wincing. Siniq-elb repressed a sigh; he should be more sympathetic with Vas. The first kill was often the hardest, and Vas did not have a mean bone in his body. But there was no time for sympathy now, and no time for Vas’s milk-water handwringing, for his long, convoluted thoughts of mercy and understanding. Now they had to act, and act fast.
A crack from the nearest terrace rang through the room, like a stone split in half. Another crack resounded, and then a third. The sounds shivered in the air.
“What is that?” Mece said. “Did you say there are seiri here? What’s going on?”
Siniq-elb’s tongue was thick and heavy in his mouth; how did he tell her that he had brought them all to certain death. He had been so certain that killing Khylar would keep the seiri from awakening; it had been his only plan, really. His only hope for stopping the seiri. Then, caught up in trying to rescue Mece, he had given himself up for dead, determined to sell his own life trying to do what he thought was right. He had saved Mece, but perhaps not for long.
The train of thoughts cost him precious time.
“Someone’s up there,” Mece said. A shadow moved at the uppermost terrace. “Tair help us, what’s going on, Siniq-elb?”
Siniq-elb couldn’t answer. He glanced around the base of the pit, looking for anything that might hide them, a place to make a last stand. Without feet, he would not last long against the lightning-fast seiri, but he would not go easily either. Cut into the terraces behind them was a tall tunnel, a black circle that the lamplight did not reach.
“There,” he shouted. “Get in there, Mece. Now.”
Mece stayed at his side, and he gave her a shove toward the tunnel. “Run.”
She ran, glancing back at him. Vas followed, lagging behind, waiting for Siniq-elb. For a heartbeat, Siniq-elb considered stooping to retrieve the sword, but he knew that with the crutches, he risked falling—and worse, it would take him too much time. He started after Vas, grimacing. Knife buried in Khylar, sword left on the ground. Qilic would have had Siniq-elb’s head on a platter if he had been so careless about his weapons as a soldier. Too much time with Vas, thinking instead of letting instinct decide for him. Now he paid the price.
Mece had reached the shadows of the tunnel, her legs a sliver of the moon before she disappeared into the darkness. Vas had stopped running and stood waiting for Siniq-elb. Something hit the ground hard behind Siniq-elb, making him stumble as the force of the blow rippled through the earth under him. Siniq-elb stopped his headlong flight and turned. No point in leading the seiri to Mece.
So much for the last stand in the tunnel.