The Stone Knife

by Anna Stephens

  Ossa’s tail thumped again as Lutek and Tiamoko came to stand before her. Xessa blinked and scrubbed her hand over her cheeks. Of course she was crying over Ossa; there was no reason for them to think anything else.

  ‘I pissed myself the first time I killed someone,’ Lutek signed when she looked at her. Stark, without preamble. ‘Right there, in the middle of the fight, my first fight. Straight out of me like a flood, enough you could float a Drowned in it. While fighting. Never been so scared in my life as I was that first time.’ She smiled, half-embarrassed, and shrugged. ‘Second time I puked up my guts. Pretty much as soon as the fight was over, on my knees hacking up what felt like every meal I’d ever eaten. It happens.’

  Tiamoko pushed his hair back off his forehead and his massive shoulders rose and fell in a sigh. He was too young for the hardness in his eyes. ‘I cried. Sobbed like a little one the first time they get pierced.’ He touched the bamboo stud in his lower lip. ‘On my knees in the blood. Sobbing because I’d killed someone. Because I’d lived, maybe, I don’t know. Just … cried, for hours.’

  Xessa stared at them in turn. Lutek, sarcastic and fast and deadly, like a viper. Unafraid of anything. Tiamoko, the patient intensity of the jaguar, but always quick to laugh.

  ‘So what we’re saying is, if you want to puke, or piss yourself, or cry, just go ahead and do it,’ Lutek said. ‘We all have, that and more. You’ve taken human life. How different that is to killing a Drowned none of us can know, but we do know it’s not easy. Even for us, it’s not easy. So do what you need to do, but then get some rest. And be ready again at dawn.’

  Xessa swallowed hard, unable to sign her fingers were wound so tightly together. Lutek gave her a wink and Tiamoko ruffled her hair. ‘Love you, eja,’ he said, to her surprise. ‘If you ever want to tell me about it, or about how you’re feeling or anything like that, you can.’ He patted Ossa gently and stepped back.

  ‘It’s hard,’ he signed when she looked up. ‘Really hard. And I hope it stays hard for you. That way you won’t learn that actually, as time passes, it gets easier. Because it shouldn’t. Killing should never be easy and we should suffer for it. It should haunt us. Only these days …’ He trailed off, rubbing his palms over his upper arms. ‘Never mind,’ he said and turned away before she could respond.

  Frowning, Xessa watched others shambling past towards their own homes. Heads down, subdued, exhausted. Some stared without blinking, or performed repetitive, automatic actions. But there were one or two, like Tiamoko, who shook it off even as she watched. Dismissed what had happened, what they’d done. Those were the true killers, she thought, the ones so scarred they didn’t even see the marks any more.

  That’s what Tiamoko is, despite his youth. That’s what they’ve made him.

  She shivered and pressed her face to Ossa’s head again, hoping Toxte would get back soon. She’d already checked on Otek and made sure he’d eaten and had enough water. Now she wanted her husband.

  I don’t ever want to be like that, she thought suddenly. I don’t want to have killed so many that it means nothing. I don’t want to be dead behind the eyes or in the heart.

  She felt guilty thinking it about fellow Tokob, about the people who killed to keep her and those she loved safe, but the idea wouldn’t leave her. Something indefinable had changed, and she didn’t think it would ever go back to the way it was again.

  PILOS

  West of Sky City, Malel, Tokoban

  33rd day of the grand absence of the Great Star

  They were running out of time. Every report that that Elaq sent to Listener Citla in Yalotlan, that she forwarded via runner, told him so.

  The Sky City should not still be resisting: they’d cut off their water supply and they outnumbered the defenders. There was no relief coming. There was no way out. And yet still they fought, Tokob and Yaloh still allied, just, against them, marching out each dawn in their bright paint and hair charms, their brighter righteousness.

  Pilos offered up a prayer to Singer and Setatmeh alike that they would surrender before dusk. They’d taken the Tokob holy cave on the first day of the attack and the city had to know that. People had been seen fleeing through a small gate in the upper western wall, so he’d stationed three pods out of sight around the flank of the hill; they’d captured the runners and dragged them back in ropes, paraded them within sight of the city. If the defenders could see that their efforts weren’t buying anyone time to get away – if they could see their own loved ones among the captives – surely that would break their resolve.

  But still – thirsty, exhausted, with no hope and no reinforcements – they’d marched out at dawn to offer battle once more. Pilos had no choice but to accept it and to respect them for it. He wiped sweat from his face and knew, deep in his belly and balls, that they’d fight until they died, until there was no one left who could stand or lift a spear. It would be red slaughter before it was over and the number of slaves they’d reap for the Empire would be pitiful. Another failure for Enet to condemn.

  ‘The song will provide,’ he muttered to himself and, as if in answer, he noticed a figure waving its arms as it slogged uphill, wide of the battle, towards him.

  Pilos frowned and then swore. It was Citla and two guards. But the Listener shouldn’t have come herself – she should have sent a message. Pilos jogged down the hill towards them, Feather Detta following.

  ‘The song, High Feather,’ Citla gasped, clutching her chest. She swayed on her feet and Pilos steadied her. She was clearly exhausted from the journey, but also from being away from the song. A Listener’s life was attuned deeply, almost entwined with, the song’s magic and the sustenance it provided. To be out from under it would be an exquisite agony, as if she’d had her heart torn out while still alive.

  It meant that whatever news Citla had to impart must be of the utmost importance. ‘Tell me,’ Pilos said, and his voice was heavy with dread.

  ‘The song is broken, High Feather. Shattered, defiled. Not just its harmony but its meaning. The song is dying.’

  It had taken hours for the runner to skirt the city and bring back Ilandeh after the Listener’s awful, horrifying news. Fortunately, as soon as Citla told the Whisper what had happened – how the song had shattered eleven days before and hadn’t recovered before she’d left its bounds – Ilandeh had cut to the heart of the matter.

  ‘What do you need, High Feather?’

  ‘Get back to the Singing City as fast as you can. And I mean fast. Find out what the fuck is going on. Use Councillor Yana and Elaq. I suspect Enet, but be thorough. Cast your net wide and find out what’s happening, then get word to me through the song if you can. And if you can manage it, keep the Singer safe.’

  ‘As the High Feather commands.’

  ‘Perhaps the Singer’s ascension is approaching,’ Feather Detta ventured and Pilos shivered.

  ‘Perhaps. Though what Citla described bears no resemblance to any ascension I’ve ever lived through.’ He looked to the Listener, who was slumped and grey.

  ‘No,’ she murmured. ‘Not ascension.’

  ‘And if it was, with Enet being Chosen, that would make her the most likely candidate to become the new Singer. And that fills me with even more fear.’ Eagle and macaw were uneasy at his admission, but it served to emphasise the seriousness of what had gone wrong.

  ‘I’ll find out what’s happening and then come back if we can’t speak through the song,’ Ilandeh promised. ‘You’ll have finished here by then – they can’t last much longer without water – so I’ll meet you on the road. As for Enet: want me to kill her?’

  ‘A bold offer, Flight, and I appreciate it. While it may come to that, for now just find out what she’s up to. Stay at my estate, not the barracks. You’ll be safer.’ He flicked a finger at the feather in her hair. ‘You’ll have to take the scarlet out. I’m sorry.’

  Ilandeh’s face was neutral; she shrugged. ‘As the High Feather commands.’

  He hesitated, knowing it was
scandalous, but then untied one of the eagle feathers from the fan in his hair. ‘Wear this. It’ll guarantee you access in the Singing City.’

  Detta’s mouth dropped open and Ilandeh’s cheeks reddened as she took it; her fingers trembled against his.

  ‘High Feather, my blood is—’

  He cut her off with a gesture. ‘Gather your supplies and go. Now. All haste,’ he emphasised.

  Ilandeh snapped out of her reverie, meeting his eyes. ‘Yes, High Feather. I won’t let you down. Under the song.’ She touched belly and throat, stared at him one last time, awed and afraid at the status she held between her fingers, and then she was gone.

  ‘Detta, this ends now. We’ll disengage at dusk as usual, wait for them to settle, and then throw everything we’ve got at those walls through the night until we’re in. Rotate the warriors at the walls for as long as you have to, but do not stop. I’d wanted to maximise the number of slaves we’d take, but that’s a secondary concern now. Just get them beaten.’

  ‘Yes, High Feather.’ Detta was shocked at what he’d heard, but he was an eagle and an officer. He touched belly and throat and raced away, calling Feathers and Coyotes to his side and issuing orders with crisp authority.

  ‘Citla, rest as long as you need to and then get yourself back into the song. It’s doing you no good being out here.’

  The Listener nodded, weary and haunted, but she didn’t move and he let her be. It was halfway between highsun and dusk. Pilos sucked his teeth, tapping the club gently against his calf as he watched the sway and crimp of battle below. The Tokob had begun to understand the Melody’s tactics and replicate them on this side of the city. Reports said the Yaloh were learning to do the same in the east. Where before they’d fought in supported groups of thirty or so, now they strung out in lines three deep, like the Melody’s. It had made the fighting more intense. It had forced his warriors into a bloody, long-drawn affair that they had no time for.

  Pilos swapped his club for a spear and shield. The slope was slippery and he picked his way down with care until he reached a flatter section where the lines strained and shoved at each other and the din of battle beat against his eardrums. A man peeled out of the rear rank with blood turning his face into a crimson mask. He staggered past Pilos without recognition, heading for the shamans. The High Feather took his place, rolling his shoulders and his neck, circling his wrists and breathing deep to prepare for the rotation into the front line.

  He stepped into a gap between two warriors, slid beneath the strike of a spear and batted it upwards with his own. It shivered in the Tokob hands and Pilos followed up with a kick that sent his opponent staggering back into the warriors behind. The enemy’s lines were ragged, their instinct to break into small groups warring with the knowledge they’d be cut down if they did. This close up, they were neither one formation nor the other, and Pilos’s line exacted a terrible toll for their hesitation.

  Only the sheer number of two tribes allied against him – and the fact that half his Melody was with Feather Atu securing Yalotlan – had held defeat at arm’s length this long. But they were fighting farmers and potters as often as warriors these days, and the lack of quality was beginning to tell.

  Pilos jerked sideways as another spear came for his face then lanced his own back along its trajectory. This warrior was faster and sidestepped, her spear jabbing again, and then once more. Pilos slipped the first but the second caught him high up on the chest, juddering over the wooden plates and into the salt-cotton of his armour.

  He twisted sideways so it slid on past, tearing through armour but not flesh, and then struck over the top, a downward blow that went into the top of her shoulder, not enough to reach the lung or even a big vessel, but it weakened her arm and she squawked and he used the opening to rush her, ramming his spear up under her armour into her hip. He was lucky, the blade missing the pelvic bone and sinking deep into meat instead. There was no squawk or scream this time; she grunted, guttural and low, animal-like, and Pilos ripped it back out. She fell. Another took her place.

  Pilos grinned as his spear tip blocked the swings of an axe, too short to make ground against him. This one fought defensively, knowing he was outmatched and hoping the warriors to either side would come to his aid. They didn’t, too busy keeping themselves alive, and it wasn’t long before his shrill scream was added to the rest, splitting the air, an offering to glory.

  Melody warriors could fight in line and individually, in small packs, in arrowhead shapes, in ambush and at night. The right formation for the right ground and the right enemy. Thousands of hours of practice made them the best killers the world had ever seen and they proved it now.

  Word had spread that High Feather Pilos battled with them, and a chant started far down at one end of the line. A chant of praise, of might and majesty, glory and triumph. A chant to lift the heart while the song, the true song, was absent.

  The ground underfoot was treacherous with blood and corpses, and Pilos slipped and went to one knee, pausing there for five heartbeats to suck in hot air before lurching back upright and engaging the next. Fighting for his rage and his honour and for the Empire. For the song, shattered though it might be.

  But not gone. I will return to the Singing City and fix the song. I will do all that is necessary to restore the Singer to his glory and the song to peace. But first, we will claim this land, and when we build the pyramids and cap them with songstone, then will the Tokob goddess know true harmony. Then will she see glory and weep to be a part of it, reunited with the incandescence of the world spirit of which she is but a dull splinter.

  Sucking in more air, Pilos joined his voice to that of his warriors, a bloody grin staining his face along with the slanting, late-day light.

  XESSA

  Sky City, Malel, Tokoban

  33rd day of the grand absence of the Great Star

  Heaps of dead littered Malel’s skin: Tokob and Yaloh, Pechaqueh, Axib, Tlaloxqueh, Quitob, Xentib, Chitenecah … piles upon piles of dead.

  Xessa thought the stones of the city might shiver apart under the vibrations of voice and drum and stamping feet as survivors danced the death rites for as many as they could, mass rituals to sing the departed to rebirth.

  She’d slept from dusk to midnight, wrapped in Toxte against the terrors of the day, doing her best to climb inside his skin and hide, until a sentry had woken them. It was their turn to relieve the watchers on the walls.

  The thought of it gripped her insides with fear – in the darkness and the flickering, jumping light of torches, it was even harder to read hands or lips, to know what was happening or what she was being told. But with so many warriors dead or in the healing caves, even children were taking their turns as sentries. She would, too.

  Thirst crawled into her throat as she limped through the city, Ossa limping at her side. It hadn’t rained today, and their water supplies were desperately low. The dog had refused to be left behind this time, and he’d slept better and drunk more than she had, for she’d given him his water ration and then shared her own. She licked dry lips and watched him pad at her side. Worth it.

  Toxte left her for his own assignment further downhill and she stood and watched his broad back and the sway of his hair begin to vanish. Her chest tightened when he glanced back, just once, his hand raised. Xessa waved and nodded and turned away and tried not to feel the clawed hands of the lords of the Underworld dragging them apart.

  I’ll see him at dawn.

  Tiamoko was waiting for her beneath a sputtering torch. His smile was weary but genuine. ‘You found your shadow, I see,’ he signed and pointed at Ossa. Xessa nodded, her mind still occupied with thoughts of her husband being swallowed by the night. They walked to their position and Tiamoko wedged the torch in place in the top of the wall and they stared out into the dark. Ossa lay down, resting his head on her bare foot. To either side, other sentries were arriving to take over from those who had finished their shift.

  ‘You should go,’ she sign
ed after tapping his arm. He blinked slowly and she huffed. ‘Go on, go and rest. You’re exhausted.’

  Tiamoko blinked again, staring over her shoulder. So tired he was practically asleep on his feet. Xessa slapped his bare arm, but instead of flinching he just narrowed his eyes and rose onto his toes. Cocked his head.

  A cold shiver went down Xessa’s back and she felt the tiniest hint of a vibration through the stone pathway. Ossa’s head lifted.

  She began to turn, but Tiamoko grabbed her shoulders and she squawked in pain as her injury roared at the contact.

  ‘They’re at the walls,’ he said, panic distorting his mouth. ‘They’re in the city.’

  Xessa tried to make sense of it, but a dark figure slid over the wall behind him and she grunted a warning and shoved him out of the way, tried to bring her spear to bear but the attacker was already on her, a short man, thick with muscle, one side of his head shaved and tattooed. A Quitob dog warrior. Xessa could see the inked patterns clearly because the man had her in an embrace, her arms pinned to her sides, and he was hammering a knife into her back.

  Bamboo and salt-cotton absorbed the first blow, and Ossa disrupted the second. The dog leapt at the warrior and tore his hamstring out and was gone before the man could turn on him. His leg buckled and he slid down Xessa’s front until she leapt back, spun her spear in her hands and punched it down between his shoulder blades with all her strength. There was no guilt or shock at this death – she didn’t have time for either.

  A great flood of adrenaline dumped into her bloodstream and dulled all but the sharpest of her hurts. Tiamoko was fighting only steps from her, but more and more of the Melody were pouring over the wall like ants. A black tide that she didn’t know how to stop.

  A Pechaqueh head appeared over the wall next to her and Xessa smashed its face with the butt of her spear, sending them backwards into the dark, but to her right another had climbed up and over onto the walkway. She blocked his spear and thrust back, but slowly enough for her opponent to duck on instinct. In the tiny gap his flinch gave her, she stabbed at yet another man, this one closing with Tiamoko. She sliced his leg, and then jumped sideways, deflecting a jab from the man facing her and following up with a blow to his temple with the haft of the spear. He fell to one knee and Ossa tore his throat out.