When he felt the sand beneath his feet, he looked up. Movement again. Most likely the kabutat watching his progress. Slave dismissed it and made his way back to the Elbar’s room.
Slave moved quietly to stand by the window to look in. The room was dark and deserted.
After easing open the door, Slave stood motionless, listening. When he heard nothing untoward, he stepped inside the room and crossed silently to the first of the two doors that led deeper into the cliff. He rested a hand on the wood, feeling a slight warmth. Pressing his ear to the door, Slave heard breathing. With slow, deliberate movements Slave pushed open the door and stepped inside.
Adrast was not sleeping well. He tossed and turned in his bed, muttering frequently. Slave, from where he stood and watched, could make out some words, but they made little sense. The man was troubled by Slave’s presence in the Kuriltai, but troubled even more by something else. He grunted again in his sleep. Slave was about to turn and leave when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.
Something else was in Adrast’s room. Something large, quadrupedal and moving without sound. Slave stared intently at the bulking shape, unsure what it was about the thing that felt wrong.
He realised what it was in the same moment he realised he had to act quickly. There was no time for niceties. Slave threw himself backward and hit the floor in a tuck roll, allowing him to spring straight up onto his feet. The dark shape paused in its advance towards Adrast then uttered a shattering bellow as it surged across the room, almost flowing over the floor. Slave had just enough time to raise his Claw before the thing crashed into him.
It was like being enveloped by warm snow. Wet, thick and cloying, the black mass burst over him. In a heartbeat he was struggling for his life as the warm mass filled his mouth, nose and ears, blocking his breath, his vision, and slowed his every movement. He felt desperation rise in his throat like bile. Anger came along with it, lending him strength and speed, but the warm soggy mass was slowly killing him.
It was almost a relief when the black rage sent its tendrils of madness through his soul. For the first time, Slave welcomed the mindless release, the insane berserker fury as it took him, as it stole his consciousness, releasing the preternatural monster within him. His last conscious thought was a word of thanks to the Revenant for its gifts.
23
Slave woke up on a cold, grey morning. He shivered with discomfort. Every part of his body cried out in pain. The new wounds struggled with older, half-healed injuries and badly knit scars for pre-eminence in the cacophony of agony that racked him. He went to move to seek some way he could lie to reduce the pain, but could not — he was being restrained.
His memories of the black rage, the utter release into madness, the killing, allowed him to guess he had been captured by those he left alive. With trepidation, he forced an eye open, wincing as even that hurt, to see what held him down this time. He looked at the open sky above, then at the massive chains around his wrists, ankles, throat and chest, and sighed.
How many did I kill?
The sand of the training arena beneath his back was cold and damp. He was naked, bloodied and hungry but in no hurry to attract attention so he closed his eyes again, seeking sleep.
It did not come, as the sound of footsteps soon intruded into his pain, followed by a hard kick in the ribs. Slave could not stop the grunt of pain the kick caused. He opened his eyes to regard the person who had kicked him.
‘What are you?’ a woman asked.
Slave did not reply, preferring to look up at the woman. She was hard. Everything about her was hard: her face, her eyes, her body, her clothes. She wore the tight-fitting leather and metal of a warrior, and her long dark hair was scraped back into a ponytail. At her waist hung a dagger, and a sword was slung over her shoulder; the belt holding the scabbard cut across her chest, accentuating her breasts. She kicked him again.
‘I asked you a question,’ she snapped.
‘A guest,’ Slave rasped. He was surprised at how dry his throat was. How long had he been unconscious?
‘Guests do not kill their hosts.’
‘It depends on the kind of hospitality they offer,’ Slave replied.
She kicked him again. This time there was the distinct crack of bone. A cracked rib, hopefully not actually broken.
‘Who did I kill?’ Slave gasped at the new pain.
‘What is it — some sort of joke to you?’ she cried. She drew back her boot for yet another kick, but a heavy hand grabbed her shoulder and dragged her off balance.
‘Leave him be,’ Keshik said.
‘Leave him!’ the woman shrieked. ‘You saw what he did!’
‘Yes, and I said leave him be, Ingergerd.’
Ingergerd spat on the ground and turned on her heel to stalk away. Keshik watched her go, then looked down at Slave.
‘You did it again,’ he said. ‘Why were you in the Elbar’s room?’
‘There was something in there with him. It attacked me. That’s the last I remember.’ Keshik was crouched to Slave’s left, above his shoulder, so Slave had to tilt his head as far back as he could in order to see Keshik. ‘How many did I kill?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘Fifteen? No wonder she was upset. It might have been better to let her kill me.’
Keshik shook his head. ‘No. We still need you. This isn’t over.’
‘Maida?’
‘No, she’s safe. I know what you do when you get like that. As soon as I recognised the signs, I got as many away as I could.’
‘The Elbar?’ Slave had feared to ask. If he had killed the man, the consequences could be catastrophic.
Keshik almost smiled. ‘Do you know why he pursued studying rather than weaponry?’
‘No.’
‘He’s a coward. The moment he woke up, he ran. Even the sound of battle is enough to make him run.’
‘Good for him.’
Keshik rose. ‘I will get you a blanket. It’s going to be a cold day.’
‘A blanket? Unchain me. We need to get to Myrrhini.’
‘Not until we find Adrast.’ Keshik began to walk away, but stopped and looked down at Slave. ‘And honour our dead.’
Slave twisted his head around, but Keshik had already walked out of view. He sighed. Of all the things he still did not understand about the world, this obsession with the dead was the one that defeated him utterly. How can one honour the dead? They are gone. They cannot accept an honour so what is the point? He could understand burying them — dead bodies take a long time to rot and stink after a day or so — but this solemn occasion people made over the process was a mystery.
It was Maida who brought the blanket to drape over him. She had obviously bathed and spent time attending to her hair and skin. She looked better than Slave had ever seen her before. Her eyes sparkled with good humour as she knelt at his side, spreading the heavy, warm blanket over him.
‘How are you?’ she asked.
‘Sore. Cold. Impatient.’
‘Impatient?’ Maida mused. ‘I had never imagined you as being impatient. You seem to be always patient, always waiting for something. Never hurried.’
‘Men have died because of my impatience.’
‘Men die for many reasons. Few reasons are worthwhile.’
‘Like those I killed last night?’
Maida looked thoughtful then nodded. ‘Like them,’ she agreed.
‘Do you know what was in Adrast’s room last night? The thing I was fighting at first?’
Maida shook her head. ‘No one’s mentioned anything like that.’
‘It was a shadow hunter.’
Maida’s hand went to her mouth in shock, her eyes widening. ‘A shadow hunter?’ she whispered as if even mentioning the name might bring one upon her. ‘Here? In the Kuriltai? Who else knows?’
Slave shrugged.
‘How could one be here?’
Something that had been nagging at Slave ever since he climbed down from the sentry loca
tion above the training arena suddenly became clear. Why would a sentry hide from an intruder in his own guard post? And why would he then attack the intruder he had already identified by name?
Slave had sensed the attack would come, he had recognised instinctively that there was something wrong with the man at the time. How had he missed what his instincts had been screaming at him?
‘The Kuriltai has been infiltrated,’ he said.
‘What?’ Maida rose quickly to her feet, her eyes darting from side to side.
‘Last night, up there, above that carving. I met a man who was pretending to be a guard.’
‘Up there? Those sentry posts aren’t manned at the moment. There aren’t enough here to man them.’
‘But there was a man up there.’
‘I must tell Keshik,’ Maida said.
‘Release me first,’ Slave asked.
Maida looked down at Slave. ‘I don’t have the keys, but I will get them as soon as I can.’ She ran away, kicking up sand as she left. Slave blinked the dust out of his eyes, wondering about the shadow hunter. Who was it after? He had assumed it was after the Elbar, but the false sentry, whoever he had been, might have sent it after Slave. But why then send it into Adrast’s room?
The scuff of a careless step interrupted his thoughts. Distracted, Slave had not heard anyone approach, but as he looked up to see who it was, he realised his inattention was not to blame. It was the sentry from the previous night. He moved with the careful, near silence of the trained Habigga, but he was no Tulugma. His face was mostly covered, ostensibly against the chill wind that swirled around, but primarily for anonymity. He held Slave’s gaze for a moment.
‘I thought you would be better,’ he whispered. ‘But you were disappointingly easy to fool.’ His hand came out from under his coat to reveal a small dagger.
Slave thought about calling for help, but before he could, the man was thrown backward with great force, as if he had been kicked in the chest by a horse. He tumbled out of Slave’s vision, but he hit the ground hard and did not move. There was a groan, then silence, followed by footsteps approaching from Slave’s right. He looked and saw Adrast. The Elbar looked pleased with himself.
‘Imagine conjuring a shadow hunter, here, inside the Kuriltai,’ he said calmly. ‘He will never try anything so arrogant again.’
As if that were a signal, a cry arose. There was the sound of running footsteps followed by a brief clatter of arms as several Tulugma descended upon the fallen spy and hacked him to pieces. Slave had never felt so helpless as he lay there, spreadeagled on the sand, chained down and wounded. The Tulugma killed, then walked away, Adrast joining them, to honour their dead. No one else spoke to Slave or acknowledged his presence. It was as if he did not exist. There was nothing he could do, so he settled down for a long wait. It was not as if those keeping him chained did not have their reasons. With a cracked rib, were anyone to decide to seek revenge, he might well be at risk, so on balance, he was probably safer where he was.
The sounds of people talking — no, chanting — carried on the breeze. Slave focused, but could not make out any words, just the rhythm, the sense of melancholy. There were a lot of voices joined in the chant, all in harmony and keeping perfect time. This was either something they had learned well or had practised a lot. Slave guessed the latter if this was their ceremony to honour their dead. During the long, brutal running battle with the Revenant’s army, this had probably been done many, many times, but Slave had not watched if they did.
Slave closed his eyes and concentrated, allowing his other senses to draw in information from his surroundings. Beneath him, the cold sands carried the steady thrum of feet moving, wind shifting sands and the gradual warming from the sun. The morning meal had been cooked and eaten already — a simple meal of boiled vegetables and fresh bread. Beneath the sounds of the chanting, he could hear others moving about: sentries, horses restive in their stables, and a woman approaching him. Maida was returning and hopefully she carried the keys.
The distant cry of Haron in wyvern form made him remember the shapeshifters. Tatya was curled up asleep in a sheltered, warm place somewhere in the arena — he could hear her unconscious purring, even feel it through the ground along with Maida’s approach.
They were as enigmatic as they were powerful, the vlekkenvorm. He accepted their reasons for following him, but he did not understand it. Their kind had been created by his people, but so long ago; why would they carry any loyalty to him? He was grateful that they did, for he had learned respect for their skills and appreciation for their help, but surely gratitude was not enough.
Maida knelt beside him and started to wrestle with the lock at his right wrist. He did not open his eyes, preferring to concentrate on the sensations of her hands unlocking his bruised and bleeding wrist. Her fingers were strong and hard, with a knife fighter’s calluses, yet there was no mistaking the femininity in her touch. She was a curious mixture of the hard and the soft, so unlike Waarde or the unnamed assassin from so long ago.
Or Myrrhini.
His eyes snapped open. Myrrhini. He had to get to her. Kielevinenrohkimainen was moving through the world, building its army as the Revenant had, but more subtly. She could not defeat it alone. He had to be there to face it, had to take the Tulugma left here with him.
How do I know that?
Maida rose and moved to unlock his other wrist. Her eyes were downcast, so she saw his own eyes open and regard her. She gave him a small, uncertain smile.
Uncertain? What has she got to be uncertain about?
Slave was not concerned about Maida’s inner feelings. His wrists were free and she was working on the chain around his waist. In moments, she had unlocked it and was moving to release his ankles. Slave sat up, wincing at the pain of his newly cracked rib. Several new wounds reopened as he moved, sending trickles of blood down his body. The loss of blood had weakened him; he needed food and water to rebuild his strength. Maida unlocked his ankles and stood up.
‘We should leave as soon as we can,’ Slave said. He wrapped the blanket around himself and rose gingerly to his feet. The wounds, new and old, sent stabs of pain through his body, protesting at the movement. Slave winced again. A night unprotected in the cold was the worst thing for recuperation. For a moment, the pain that burned through every part of his body was enough to make him close his eyes and bow his head, losing focus on everything else.
Ice and wind, that hurts.
For a moment, he wavered. The need to rest, recover, ease this pain that racked his body struggled with the deep-seated need to keep moving, to get to Myrrhini, that had been planted there by … by what? Where had this near compulsion come from?
During the long journey to reach the Kuriltai, he and Myrrhini had the shared vision of the battle against the Revenant to keep them going, but that vision had been fulfilled. Why the new driving purpose? What was the source of that?
‘What are you doing?’ A voice cut across the low chants of the Tulugma. Slave turned quickly to see a man stalking across the arena towards them. Maida stepped back slightly, leaving Slave alone to face the new threat. Slave suddenly felt an unexpected weight in his left hand as his weapon magically appeared. He raised the Claw to his face in a salute before lowering it into readiness for bloodshed. The man skidded to a halt at the sight of the newly armed Slave. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. ‘What are you doing?’ he repeated, addressing this more to Maida than Slave.
‘He’s injured,’ she offered. ‘Badly injured. I was going to get him some food and see to his wounds.’
‘Injured? The poor thing is injured?’ The man’s voice held heavy sarcasm, laced with bitterness. ‘Did you see what he did? Do you see what we are doing?’ He pointed back towards where the other Tulugma were gathered, chanting their funeral dirge over their fallen comrades. ‘He’s lucky Kabutat Keshik offered injury to anyone who killed him.’
‘But he did so offer,’ Slave said. He stepped forward, away from Maid
a, towards the angry Tulugma. ‘We need to leave here soon. I don’t have time for your anger or vengeance. If we survive what is to come, and the world remains, I will face you in fair combat to give you a chance to avenge your fallen, if that’s what you want. But for now, I need to leave here, as do you.’
The man sneered, his defiance weakened somewhat by the fear in his eyes, and stepped back. ‘I don’t have to leave here,’ he snapped.
Slave took a step forward, his Claw still poised. ‘Yes, you do,’ he said softly. ‘You will be going to your death, but your death will be meaningful and you will fall at the hand of a worthy opponent.’
The Tulugma made another slight backward movement. His hand moved down again towards his sword hilt. ‘A worthy opponent?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
The Tulugma swordsman relaxed. ‘Where are we going?’
‘I don’t know yet. West of here.’
The swordsman gave a short laugh. ‘Everything is west of here.’
It was clear the fight had gone out of the man as quickly as it had flared up. Slave relaxed a little; the man would live longer, maybe long enough to die for something worth more than simple vengeance. He wrapped the blanket around himself tightly and went with Maida into a small ground-level room to get his clothes back.
After he dressed, Maida laid out some food on a table together with a jug of water. He sat beside her and started to eat. She watched him closely, as if she had never watched a man eat before. Slave believed she wanted to say something and decided to wait her out.
‘You said the Tulugma would all die,’ she said eventually.
Slave grunted with a nod.
‘All of them?’
‘That’s what the vision I shared with Myrrhini indicated.’
‘Even Keshik?’
Slave shrugged. ‘Probably.’
‘And that’s where you are going? To this last battle? Where everyone dies?’
Revenant Page 22