A booming voice rolled across the plain. ‘Why are you here?’
Myrrhini looked up, unperturbed to see the Revenant, wings outspread, eyes burning with red fury, towering above her.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. The sense of disconnectedness surrounding her kept fear at bay as she stared up at the vast beast towering above her. ‘Aren’t you dead?’ she asked.
The monster roared in fury, raising its fists to the chaotic sky, shaking them as if in pain. As it did so, chunks of its body broke away to crash to the ground around Myrrhini. Where they fell, they left patches that glowed a sickly yellow from within.
‘I could have been victorious!’ the Revenant raged. ‘I could have utterly destroyed your kind, wiped you from the world.’
‘But you didn’t.’
‘I could have.’
The way it said the words sent a shiver through Myrrhini. Where was she? Why was this thing here, along with all her dead?
‘You are pure Mertian,’ the Revenant said. Its voice was calmer, its eyes glowing with less intensity as it stared down at her.
‘I am,’ Myrrhini said.
‘That is why I am here, in your hell world. You drove me here until I am able to free myself and come after you again.’
‘I don’t understand. Slave killed you, not me.’
The Revenant gave a low growl, not unlike the kind of sound Tatya sometimes made. ‘My Beq,’ it rumbled. ‘Betrayed by a Scaren Beq, aided by a Mertian Traveller. It should not happen, but it did. And everything that can happen, must happen. That is the power of the world you call Eztli-Ichtaca.’
‘So you will win? One day?’
‘Not now. Not unless you chose to release me.’
‘Me?’
‘You sent me here.’
‘So you will never win, for I will never release you.’
‘You have not yet faced Kielevinenrohkimainen.’
‘What can it do?’
‘Ask Maida. It had her for a time.’
‘How?’
‘When Slave killed her, Kielevinenrohkimainen took her from death. It only gave her back when that Tulugma set it free.’
‘How did Kielevinenrohkimainen get her?’
‘Ask Keshik why he was paid to attack that Rilaman. Why they needed a Tulugma blade and not just some ordinary assassin.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I don’t care.’ The Revenant raised itself to its full height and bellowed to the sky. Its wings stretched wide, unfurling like enormous black sails to catch the wind. It crouched slightly then drove itself up into the swirling chaotic sky and flew straight up as it had done over the plains of Tusemo. Myrrhini watched it fly away until it had vanished.
Even having a conversation with this vast thing of violence and power was not enough to stir her emotions or break the hold this strange place had over her. It was as if she did not care, as if nothing here could touch her.
‘Perhaps I am dead,’ she said. She looked around, taking in the wildly shifting scene of carnage and inconstant terrain. The dead and dying groaned and cried in agony.
Is this my doing? Is this my hell world? Could I have brought this into existence?
How?
Why?
What did that thing call me — a Mertian Traveller? What does that mean?
Movement — human movement. Just at the edge of her vision. A figure coming towards her.
A man. She stared at him as he approached. Strong and confident, he walked easily through the shifting colours and unstable terrain.
Older than Slave, but not old.
A warrior. Tulugma.
‘Traveller,’ he called. ‘I have not seen one of your kind in this place for a long time.’
‘Who are you?’
The man paused, then laughed.
‘You don’t know? How can that be?’
‘Who are you?’ Myrrhini repeated. If this is my world, my hell that I created to be filled with my dead, how could I not know him?
‘I am the Elbar of the Tulugma. A Traveller, of sorts. I can enter your world at times, and that of the Queen.’
‘You are Mertian.’
‘Obviously.’ He tilted his head slightly to one side. A small smile formed on his face. ‘You are the Eye of Varuun, aren’t you?’
‘Not any more.’
‘Myrrhini,’ the Elbar said. ‘I wondered if you would ever break free of the Acolytes’ hold over you. You must be stronger than I had heard.’
‘Why are you here?’
‘I stumbled into this place by accident, while trying to See through the dark that has fallen across our world.’
‘And what did you See?’
‘You. Keshik. Maida. And that Scaren Beq.’
‘Then you know we defeated the Revenant before it reached the Kuriltai.’
‘And for that, I owe you more than you can know.’
‘Can you tell me what this place is? And how I can get out of here?’
‘The answer to both questions is the same — this is Eztli-Ichtaca, the world of could be. What could happen here, will happen. This is your vision of it; everyone who travels here creates their own image of what could be.’ He looked around at the scenes of carnage, the dead and dying, the blood, the devastation. ‘You have Seen much that is bad, Myrrhini. I hope you See peace.’
‘Not without Slave,’ Myrrhini said without thinking.
‘Ah, the circle of peace that surrounds the Beq. I was wondering what that might mean. I will send him to you.’ The Elbar began to fade.
‘Wait!’ Myrrhini said. ‘How do I escape this place?’
‘The world of could be,’ the Elbar said as he vanished.
She looked around, seeking an exit, but could not see anything that might be a way out. Everywhere was chaos, dead bodies and swirling colours. Myrrhini felt fear try to push its way through the blank emotionlessness she had felt so far. In a way, she welcomed the hint of emotion, even one like fear. The fear built, growing stronger until it broke through and gripped her. At once, she felt as if she had returned to herself. Her mind sharpened, her eyes focused.
‘The world of could be,’ she said. ‘I could be out of here.’
At once, the world faded, shimmering, vanishing, leaving her standing in a small cabin with boxes stacked on three sides with only a small space in between where an agent stood, regarding her curiously.
‘Myrrhini?’ he asked. ‘Can I help you?’
Momentarily disoriented, Myrrhini leaned against the door. ‘Where am I?’ she asked.
‘In a storage cabin.’
‘Where?’
‘In a storage cabin aboard the Haven of Couatl, the Blindfolded Queen’s flagship.’
‘How did I get here?’
‘You opened the door and walked in.’
The disorientation faded and she remembered why she had walked towards this door in the first place.
‘Daven,’ she said. ‘You have some in here.’
The man started to protest, but Myrrhini held up her hand to forestall his words. ‘I could smell it from outside. Where is it?’
‘You could smell it? How?’
Myrrhini just raised her eyebrows, giving the man a look of scorn. ‘Just show me,’ she instructed.
The agent indicated a box about halfway up a stack on the left-hand side of the cabin.
‘Open it,’ Myrrhini told him.
The agent shook his head. ‘That belongs to the Queen,’ he said. ‘I cannot open it without her permission.’
‘Does she always travel with daven?’
The agent nodded. ‘Always.’
‘Does she use it often?’
‘That is something you should ask her.’
‘That, among other things.’
21
Alyosha never recovered from the savage wounds he suffered at the Revenant’s hands. His strength was great, but age had wearied him. He lay down and died one night as they made their way back along the Great Riv
er of Kings. Slave knelt beside his body, resting his hands on the cold fur, feeling the wasted flesh beneath his fingers.
Tatya sat on her haunches, watching impassively with her blue-pupilled eyes. Haron, the wyvern shapeshifter, scraped at the ground as she stretched her wings wide in a display of strength over Alyosha’s body while the julle sat motionless by the old barin’s head. Maida stared blankly at the ground, her hands clasped behind her back. Her red hair hung limply out from underneath the fur-lined hood to frame her pale face. She had been very quiet ever since the awful slaughter of the arbans, spending every waking moment at Keshik’s side.
Slave rose to his feet, having said farewell to the old warrior. He turned away from the body and went to leave, discovering as he did that he was gripping his Claw. He did not remember bringing it out.
‘Where are you going?’ Maida snapped.
‘West.’
‘And you’re just going to leave him there?’
Slave frowned. ‘Yes. What else should I do?’
‘You could bury him, or something. What do your people do with their dead?’
‘They are the dead,’ Slave said. ‘I am the last of my people.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Have you seen anyone like me?’
Maida frowned, as if deep in thought. ‘I think I might have.’
‘What?’ said Keshik. ‘Where?’
‘Ever since seeing you, Slave, there has been something in the back of my mind, something familiar. I think I have seen people like you, somewhere in the world.’
‘Where?’ Slave demanded.
Maida shook her head. ‘I don’t remember — it was a long time ago.’
‘Before we met?’ Keshik asked.
‘I think so.’
‘Tusemo then,’ Keshik said.
‘Not necessarily, we travelled south into Midacea sometimes.’ She scratched her head. ‘And west, as far as C’sobra, I think.’
‘And east into the mountains?’ Slave added.
‘Once or twice, yes.’
Slave looked up at the mountains, away to the east, looming above the plains of Tusemo, their peaks hidden by clouds. What secrets did they hold? Could there be some of his own people living there, hidden all this time? What sort of people were they? Would they welcome him home?
Would he want to live with them?
He shook his head to clear it of such speculations — he had other things to think about now. Ahead, in the mountains, hidden behind their ancient walls, waited the last of the Tulugma: men and women he needed. Warriors he had to somehow entice out of their hiding place to join him. To die for him.
He tucked the Warrior’s Claw back inside his clothes again and started to jog towards the waiting mountains. Tatya and the julle ran with him, while Haron took to the wing with a cry. He knew that Maida and Keshik would follow where he led. Slave did not know how he knew they would follow, but they would. And, after a pause, they did.
It took a while to reach the foothills, the mountains looming more massive with every step. The air grew colder thanks to the winds that dropped down the slopes from the impossibly high, snow-covered peaks. Slave could not tear his gaze away from the sparkling white snow, even though the concept left him filled with dread. He simply could not imagine being so far up a mountain. The idea of climbing that high …
No, he corrected himself. It was the idea of falling that far that terrified him.
The fact that he had somehow flown that high, and much higher, in battling the Revenant in no way changed his mind. That had been something strange, something mystical, that he had not controlled. He still had no idea how he had done it.
Slave put the speculations out of his mind, concentrating on the here and now. Since battling the army of the Revenant, they had moved away from the Great River of Kings, heading north towards the Kuriltai, cutting across the Tusemon wilderness. The ground was slightly more fertile than C’sobra, supporting sparse vegetation, and it was not as frozen, allowing burrowing mammals and rodents to live here.
Haron gave a high-pitched call, circling above something ahead. Slave stopped jogging. Keshik stopped beside him.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
Slave shrugged, his every sense seeking a hint of what the wyvern shapeshifter had seen. A change in the wind brought a new scent to his nose. He hissed in annoyance.
‘People.’
Keshik drew his swords. Slave felt the comforting weight of the Claw in his hand.
The smell of unwashed humanity wafted towards him, together with that of metal and leather.
Armour.
A faint clatter of stone as a boot slipped on a slope, followed by silence.
Careful people.
People waiting. For us?
Slave smelled the air again. No hint of cooking fire. A thin smile creased his face — horses. Hidden, but definitely there.
Scouts.
Or an outpost.
Tulugma?
They’re good enough.
Slave gestured to Keshik to move to his left while he moved right, aiming to circle around the waiting sentries. He moved away quickly, hoping to surprise them. The landscape provided ample opportunities for ambush, for stealth. There were even trees dotted here and there, with some undergrowth, and the warnings of smell he so often relied upon were mostly missing, blown away by the incessant wind. Slave moved silently past a tree, eyes darting everywhere, seeking any sign of a watcher. The afternoon sun was low, sending shafts of golden light across the hardy bush, creating dark shadows in which anything might hide. Beneath his feet, the dark ground was dotted with tough, small-leafed grasses that gave off a slight pungent odour when crushed. He had to avoid standing on the clumps in case those waiting were skilled enough to notice the smell.
Overhead, Haron shrieked again, circling over the same spot. Slave looked up to watch her, only to see a man jumping down from the tree branch above him. In the moment before the man landed, Slave noticed he was armed with a Warrior’s Claw and a heavy trestus — a metal and leather gauntlet worn at times by the Apros army.
Slave dodged to one side, but the man still landed a solid blow to his head with the trestus. Pain shot through Slave, momentarily stunning him. This gave the man time to land and regain his balance. Slave recovered quickly enough to deflect the first slashing attack from the Warrior’s Claw. The two Claws met with a ringing sound and a flash of sparks. The man swung his metal-encased fist in a low, fast blow into Slave’s side. It landed hard, driving the air from Slave’s lungs. He grunted, slamming his free hand into the man’s face. Blood spurted from the broken nose, and Slave’s attacker staggered under the power of the blow. Slave followed his punch with a kick to the ribs then a whirling, slashing strike across his chest. The enchanted blades bit deep, cutting bone. The man screamed and fell backward, wrapping his arms across his ripped chest.
Slave kicked the other man’s Claw away before kneeling beside him.
‘Tulugma?’ he demanded.
The man nodded, controlling his pain to focus on Slave. Slave was impressed.
‘How many others?’
The man shook his head. Slave did not think the man would give up his fellows so easily, but he had what he wanted. There were more — the Tulugma had other scouts out. As they should.
Slave left the man where he lay, moving silently towards where Haron had first circled. The guard cried aloud in pain from his wounds, but Slave ignored him. He was beyond caring whether the other scouts knew someone was coming. If they needed the man’s cries to alert them, they would not be good enough to trouble him at all, and if they didn’t, they already knew he was coming. Ahead was a low rise, an outcrop of rock; Slave skirted around it to the right, looking ahead for the waiting guards.
The whistling hum of an arrow slicing through the air was all the warning he got before the impact slammed into his back, propelling him onto the ground face first. He sprawled on the ground, stunned, both at the impact and the fact th
at he had not known it was coming. How had he missed hearing the sound of the bow being drawn? How had he missed the archer’s location?
Slave forced himself back onto his feet, expecting the ripping pain of the arrow head lodged in his flesh but was surprised when he felt only the dull throbbing pain of a heavy blow. He turned to face the archer, his Claw ready.
A Tulugma warrior stared at him along the shaft of another arrow, barely twenty paces away. She had the arrow aimed at his chest.
‘Put the Claw down, Slave of Sondelle,’ she said, the tension of holding the powerful bow at full draw already evident in her voice.
‘You know who I am?’ Slave asked.
‘Obviously.’
‘How?’
‘I said, put the Claw down.’
Slave raised the Claw, as if to admire its intricate carving, the elegant curve of its lethal blades, the untarnished beauty of the golden grip. From the corner of his eye, he watched as the Tulugma’s bow arm started to tremble with the tension. Another few heartbeats and she would have to release the bow, either to shoot the arrow, or simply let it down. She could not hold it much longer. The bow creaked slightly as the archer gave an impatient gesture, jerking her bow arm down, indicating that Slave should drop his Claw. In making the move, she released a little of the tension of the bow, reducing the arrow’s speed of flight and hence its penetrating power. Her fingers slid forward a little more as she pulled the bow back up to aim at his chest again.
Just a little longer.
To Slave’s surprise, the woman abruptly lowered her aim and released in a single, smooth action. The arrow leaped forward, aimed straight at Slave’s right thigh. He sagged to the left, allowing the arrow to slide past harmlessly. In the moment it took the archer to pull another arrow from her quiver, nock it, draw back and take aim, Slave had sent his Claw flying with a snap of his wrist. It spun with a lethal flicker in the dying sunlight to embed itself in her shoulder. She dropped her bow with a scream and slumped to her knees, clutching at the savage wound.
Slave ran to her, wrenching the Claw from her shoulder and kicking her bow away. He stood over her, looking around for any other attackers, but only Keshik’s steady progress on the other side of the outcrop was audible. Slave frowned. Keshik was better than that. He was skilled at moving quietly. So why was he clumping along like a farmer dragging a plough?
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