by Phil Tucker
“Yet here you are.” Jarek fought an upwelling of anger. “What do you want, Acharsis?”
“What do I want?” He spoke softly, as if he were asking himself. “Revenge, mostly. On Irella.”
“And to get it, you need us,” said Jarek. “That’s why you’re concerned about Sisu and myself.”
“Cruel words, old friend.” Acharsis gazed in the direction of the dream rhino. “It’s possible to exact revenge and still care about those who are working with you. But keeping our group together is like trying to hold a clay cup after it’s shattered. Sisu is drowning in bitterness. You are becoming as approachable as a… no, that’s an impolitic metaphor. Annara, as I said, won’t talk to me for fear of fueling Elu’s resentment, and he refuses absolutely to interact with me in any way. Only Kish is relatively normal, and she’s depressed from how cold you’re being to her.”
Jarek jutted out his lower jaw. “I’m talking to her tonight.”
“Oh? A grand reconciliation? Shall I arrange for a special tent?”
“No.”
“Then...?” Acharsis walked alongside him until it was clear Jarek wasn’t going to answer. “Not my concern. I see. Though I’d dearly love to understand. You have a beautiful, vivacious, passionate young woman who’s moderately attracted to you and willing to give you her company - and you’re pushing her away. If I had to guess, I’d hazard that you don’t want anybody interfering with your self-pity—”
Jarek raised a hand, not knowing if he wanted to strike Acharsis or simply shove him away, and then caught himself.
Acharsis turned to regard him. “You’ve never liked being called out on your moods. Fair enough. Hard to spend half your life as a demigod and then be held accountable. But I need you, Jarek. We all need you. This mission of ours is not going to survive another week if we continue to fall apart like we’re doing. I know you’re in pain; that an old wound was torn wide open again in Rekkidu. Trust me. I’m dealing with all kinds of fatherhood issues right now, too. But you need to get over it. You need to move on, and set your eyes on the one goal worth pursuing.”
“You want me to fuck Kish so that you can avenge yourself on Irella?”
“No, the dead gods blast it. Talking sense into you is like trying to get a constipated goat to shit by squeezing its head. I need you strong, focused, and on task. I need you to stop making yourself miserable, and stop making Kish miserable while you’re at it. Wise up, my friend.”
Jarek grunted. A host of petty comments crowded his mind, but he had enough dignity not to voice them.
“Guthos is up to something,” said Acharsis. “I need you sharp and attentive. He’s becoming reasonable, as if my requests don’t really matter anymore. You know how I beat him at shatranj every night? He used to get furious. Now, he just smiles and gives me this satisfied look, as if each of my victories only sweetens his anticipation for something. Not a good sign. So figure yourself out, all right? And fast.” With that, he walked away, crossing before one of the advancing wagons and out of sight.
Jarek watched him go. His knuckles ached from how tightly he was clenching his fists. Slowly, with effort, he forced himself to relax, then hung his head and resumed his march.
Dusk was falling over the steppe, the sun sinking into a sweltering haze of crimson and burgundy on the horizon as it dissolved into a series of shimmering curves. Guthos called for them to make camp at a singular, lightning-blasted tree, and as the evening routine ensued, Kish walked purposefully toward Jarek.
How hard would it be to greet her with an embrace? To let her walk into his arms, to hold her tight, bury his face in her hair? Pretend that all the differences between them were nothing? To enjoy the moment? To simply be?
No. He was too old to delude himself, to believe in the promise of a spring love. He knew where this would go. She was just starting out, and he was making his way home to Alok. He knew the pain a relationship would bring. Best to end it now. So, before she could reach him, he turned and led the way, walking into the gathering gloom toward a distant rise behind which they might find a modicum of privacy.
The chatter of the camp receded, replaced by that breathless immensity of the steppe, the hush that made it seem as if the sky itself were inhaling all the sounds up into the darkness between the stars. Jarek stepped over the rise and descended the subtle slope a few dozen yards, then turned to wait. He crossed his arms, then dropped his hands to his hips, then crossed them again. Where was she? Had she changed her—no. There.
“They seem pretty excited about something,” said Kish as she walked down to him, the grass brushing her thighs.
“Who did?”
“The guards. Everyone, really. You didn’t notice?”
“No.”
“Probably nothing. Just a new kind of tension I hadn’t noticed before.”
“Let’s make this quick, then. Acharsis said he thought Guthos was up to something. Kish…”
“Yes, let’s cut to the chase. Why, Jarek? Why are you pushing me away?”
“You don’t see?” Frustration roiled within him at having to voice his thoughts out loud. “I’m nearly twice your age. I’m old, Kish. Twenty years ago, we would have set the world on fire - but now? This can’t work.” The words came out in a rush. “You deserve someone better. Younger. Who can dance with you, laugh with you, who doesn’t carry the weight of a life filled with regrets on his shoulders.”
“You don’t think I can make that decision?”
“No.” He jutted out his chin. “You’re living in the moment. I know what that’s like. Used to do it myself. You think that nothing matters beyond the now, that passion alone can justify all the pains that are to come.”
“We might die tonight, or next week, Jarek. You’re damn right I’m living for now. Irella’s after us—”
“That’s true for any life.” He gestured blindly out toward the dark. “Everyone thinks they’ll live to fifty or sixty. But everyone, no matter their station or wealth, could die at a moment’s notice. So, no, I won’t use that line of thinking to justify folly. Not when I know better.”
“You know better.” Her tone was hardening. “Clearly. You’re such a paragon of wisdom and balance. It’s impossible that you’re pushing me away because of your pain, isn’t it? Impossible that your brush with Alok opened all your old wounds. That you’re pushing me away not because you don’t want pain, but because you can’t bear to feel alive after being divine for a few hours?”
Her words were like punches to the gut. He wanted to stride away. To push past her and return to camp. “Yes, I’m broken. That’s what you’re saying, and I agree.” His hands flexed in helpless anger. “I’m not a good time, Kish. I’m not going to laugh, and drink, and enjoy the moment with you. I’m a broken man. That what you want to hear?”
“No, Jarek—”
“I meant to die that night in Rekkidu. Instead, I visited the netherworld. I saw my father and I brought him back to life, and for a few hours I was a demigod again. I felt tens of thousands of souls flood me with their faith and strength - and then it was torn away from me. Again. You can’t know what that’s like. You’re just a godsblood. You have no idea what it feels like to have divinity stripped away from you.”
He advanced on her, loomed over her, and she was forced back, one step, two, three. “Jarek,” she tried, but he cut in again.
“I don’t want your pity,” he said. “And I can’t pretend I’m nineteen and nothing else matters but fucking. So, yes. It’s over. And in time, you’ll look back and know I was right.”
“I don’t need time.” Her voice was shaking. “I’ve changed my mind. I agree with you right now. In fact—”
“Wait.” He raised a hand.
“Wait? Wait for what?”
“Shh,” he said, cocking his head to one side. Had he imagined it? A rumbling? No, a pounding of hooves. “Down!”
They both fell into crouches, the tops of their heads barely above the grass, and a moment later a w
ave of horsemen rode past them, surging up the shallow rise and pouring over the top to the camp beyond.
Jarek’s hand closed over the haft of his Sky Hammer, but there were far too many: dozens upon dozens of dark shapes on their steppe ponies, shadows flitting past, and then the last of them were gone.
“What’s going on?” asked Kish, half-rising. “An attack?”
“Not an attack,” said Jarek, moving forward. “No weapons drawn. No war cries. Come on.”
He crept toward the ridge and looked at the camp beyond. It was ringed now by several hundred mounted nomads, their faces illuminated by the guards’ torches. Nobody seemed alarmed. A barrel-chested nomad dismounted and moved forward to meet with Guthos.
“Not an attack,” breathed Kish with relief. “Come on. Let’s—hey!”
Jarek pulled her back down by the shoulder. “Hold on.”
Shouts rose up from the camp, cries of outrage and anger. Familiar voices. Jarek saw Sisu and Elu herded forward, then Annara behind them. Last came Acharsis, his face bloodied, arms bound behind his back.
Guthos bowed low and gestured at the four. The Athite leader beamed, clapped his hands, and his men moved forward to claim their prisoners.
“Bastard,” said Jarek. Cases were being unloaded and given to the nomads, the guards working hurriedly as the Athites called out in mocking tones. “He sold us out.”
CHAPTER NINE
The men had his arms twisted behind his back and were hauling him forward. No matter how Acharsis thrashed, their grip was solid. In desperation, he threw himself forward, managing to break free for but a moment before a fist slammed into his stomach, doubling him over.
Acharsis gasped, tried to inhale, but nothing came. Suddenly reeling, he was unable to fend off the hands that latched on to him again, that wrenched his arms behind his back and drove him forward into the space between the wagons where Guthos stood smiling. Beside him, a heavyset Athite, bedecked in gold, eyes gleaming with avarice.
A foot slammed into his ankles and his legs were kicked out from under him. Acharsis collapsed onto his side, what little breath he’d collected driven out of his lungs again. Wheezing, he stared at Guthos, trying to kill the man with sheer hatred alone.
“My apologies, dear Acharsis,” said Guthos. “I’m afraid I’ve proven an inhospitable host.”
Acharsis could barely breathe. It took supreme effort to just gasp out one word. “Mother…”
“Mother? You want your mother?” Guthos looked momentarily thrown off stride, but then he smiled and continued. “Yes, you’re upset. Infantilized, apparently. Understandable. Still, if it’s any consolation, I’ve traded far worthier people than yourself to the Athites in order to secure safe passage. Even Maganian royalty, would you believe? I swear, there’s no accounting for the foolishness of those who put their fates in my hands.”
“…fucker.”
Guthos paused, eyes narrowing. “Ah. Now I see what you were trying to say. Nobody insults my dear mother.” With that, he stepped forward and buried the tip of his boot in Acharsis’ gut.
Acharsis didn’t have enough breath to yell in pain. Instead, he just curled up, using the movement to turn and watch how Elu and Annara were being handled.
Annara was walking stiffly before her captors, chin raised, glaring at anybody who came too close. Elu wasn’t in sight yet. Acharsis knew Annara well enough to see the terror beyond her composure, to know how much effort it was taking her not to scream her son’s name in futile warning. They marched her up to stand beside him. One of the guards placed his foot on her calf and drove her down onto one knee.
Annara cried out, lost her balance, and fell.
Acharsis didn’t hesitate. Breath or no, he somehow rose, coming up straight beneath the guard and headbutting him under the chin. The man staggered back, but Acharsis was on him, hands grabbing his shirt to steady him as he kneed him with all the implacable strength of a dream rhino, lifting the man up onto the balls of his feet before tossing him aside and turning to point a finger in Guthos’ face.
“Any of your men touch her again like that—”
White light burst before his eyes, and when he blinked he was on the ground, grass spiking into his face. His ears were ringing. Was that laughter? Didn’t matter. Annara was shouting, and the sound of it - the desperate fear in her voice that only he could hear - drove him up once more.
Grunting in pain, he pushed himself to his knees; then, expecting the kick to the ribs, he twisted and rose to catch the incoming foot. He latched onto the boot, absorbing the blow, then twisted the toe and heel, forcing the guard to turn and fall to avoid having his knee dislocated.
Acharsis rose and backed away, arms raised before his face. A blow from behind, then another, and more laughter.
They were toying with him.
Anger. White-hot and scalding. So this is how Jarek feels. He stepped into the next punch, trapped the arm against his chest and then gave a sharp spin. The elbow - it was probably the elbow - snapped.
The guard screamed and fell back.
Elu and Sisu were being brought forward. Blood ran from a cut on his son’s brow.
Where was Jarek? Kish? He didn’t hear bellows and the sound of hammers on bone. Where were they?
“Don’t any of you whoresons touch her,” said Acharsis, backing away from the four guards closing on him.
“Acharsis, stop.” It was Annara. Elu now knelt beside her.
He should stop. It was the right, rational thing to do. He couldn’t beat all the guards. Couldn’t defeat all the Athites. All he was doing was providing amusement, making himself look ridiculous, and asking for pain.
Well, fuck it. Sometimes, he wasn’t a reasonable man.
Acharsis reached down, slipped off his sandal and hurled it at the approaching guards. They flinched and threw up their hands in an overreaction, but Acharsis wasn’t focused on them. He whirled and leaped at Guthos.
The caravan leader scrambled backward, nearly tripping on his own heels. The Athite chieftain interposed himself, swayed back from Acharsis’ punch with lazy skill and then stepped past him, slamming the inside of his elbow into Acharsis’ throat as he did so.
For a moment, Acharsis was airborne, and then he slammed down onto the ground. Again.
Hacking, fighting the urge to simply cradle his neck, he rolled onto his side. The torchlight was starting to blur. Damn it.
Elu was up, shouting something in protest.
“Leave the idiocy to me, you fool,” croaked Acharsis, but nobody heard him. As croaks went, it had been pretty pitiful. He managed to sit up in time to see Elu throw a straight punch at the Athite, who stopped it cold with his palm.
Elu tried to yank his hand back, but the Athite closed his fist around Elu’s own and began to squeeze.
“Stop!” Annara tried to leap up, but a guard was ready. He buffeted her on the side of the head, knocking her down.
“I told you,” said Acharsis, rising up, feeling drunk on pain. “Don’t you fucking touch them!”
He staggered forward. The Athite had forced Elu onto his knees again. He glanced over at Acharsis’ haphazard approach and booted Elu in the chest, sending him sprawling.
Quick, thought Acharsis. A cunning tactic. Throw another shoe? Spit blood in his eye?
He was too dizzy and nauseous to do more than feint a blow then simply lash out with his foot at the man’s groin even as he collapsed forward. The Athite turned his hip, deflecting the blow, then caught Acharsis by the shoulder, steadying him, helping him stand.
For a second, Acharsis swayed, surprised. And then the Athite chieftain’s face rushed toward his own. There was an awful crack as the man’s brow slammed into Acharsis’ face, and everything went dark.
CHAPTER TEN
“What do we do?” Kish’s voice was tight with fear and fury.
“Nothing,” said Jarek. He forced himself to remain still as he watched the events unfolding below. “Stay still. Keep down.”
&n
bsp; Guthos and the chieftain had left their prisoners and moved to sit on stools facing each other, drinking liquor from small cups as the Athites strapped cases and goods to the backs of their ponies. The two leaders were smiling, but some kind of argument was underway. The chieftain kept shrugging and shaking his head, while Guthos pressed his case.
“What’s going on?” asked Kish.
“I’d guess the Athite is demanding more payment.” Jarek took scant comfort from Guthos’ obvious displeasure. “Guthos is probably making the case that his lost wagons mean he should pay less.”
More liquor was poured, and still the conversation continued. Jarek turned his attention to where Acharsis was bound across the back of a pony, expertly trussed and unconscious - or feigning unconsciousness. It had tested Jarek to his limits, watching his friend get battered into unconsciousness and refraining from running down to help. Sisu and Elu sat on a second pony close by, hands bound behind their backs, mouths cruelly gagged. Annara had been claimed by what looked to be a powerful warrior, and now sat behind him, face a mask of self-control.
Finally, Guthos laughed and threw up his hands. He gestured to some of his guards, and more goods were unpacked. These were quickly bound to the last of the free ponies, and then the chieftain rose to his feet. The two leaders bowed their heads to each other; the Athites mounted, and a series of high-pitched cries were given by the whole warband, who wheeled and rode off into the night.
Jarek crept back over the shallow ridge and sat. Kish joined him a moment later. He could tell she was waiting for a plan. Something brilliant. Her expectancy grated on him.
“Well?” She crouched before him. “What do we do?”
“Do? I don’t know.” He shook his head slowly. “That many Athites, this deep in the steppe? That’s no raiding party. That’s a whole tribe. There’ll be thousands of them at the main camp. Which is where they’re returning to.”