30
So many bodies. So much hideous death. Slave’s mind shied away from what his eyes told him. He saw the wounds his Claw had dealt, the scattered remnants that were once people, the shattered statue that had been the object of their veneration, the blood. So much blood, everywhere. No matter where he stepped, his foot found unsteady purchase on the gore left in his wake.
‘All these?’ he whispered. ‘I butchered all of these?’
It was only after he was violently ill that he noticed Myrrhini’s prone form, lying amid the corpses. His gut heaved again, retching with the horror that he had killed her as well. He staggered to where she lay and dropped to his knees beside her.
Her wounds were not the deep cuts of his Claw, they were more consistent with a fall from the ledge. Slave ran his hands over her, seeking serious injury, but found nothing more than bad bruising. She had been lucky. He did not dwell on the bodies she had fallen on — landing on the people he had murdered had almost certainly saved her life.
The chamber was silent now. No one groaned or cried out in pain, no one breathed. No one except Myrrhini and Slave. All the pain was gone, all the suffering ended. Slave slipped his arms under her slight frame and lifted her. He was again struck by how light she was, how fragile she seemed. Yet she had walked across the tundra, alone, to escape the Acolytes, then made her way across three kingdoms to the Blindfolded Queen. This slender woman was much tougher than she seemed. She stirred briefly as he cradled her in his arms like a child, but did not regain consciousness.
Slave cast about, looking for an exit, a way to leave behind the carnage he had caused. He saw two doors, one opposite where he had come in, the other to its left, about halfway around the circular chamber. He chose the one to the left. Moving as quickly as he could while picking his way past the hacked and dismembered corpses, trying not to look too closely at his handiwork, Slave carried Myrrhini to the door.
Overhead the glowing disc of orange was flickering, as if losing power, fading away, bringing closer the shadows that lurked at the outer edge of the chamber. Slave did not sense anything amiss in the encroaching darkness, so he increased his pace as much as he dared on the sticky, blood-spattered floor. He was about to cross into the dark shadows when a voice from behind stopped him. It was low and guttural, speaking a language full of harsh tones. Slave lowered Myrrhini and turned to face the sound.
Three bright points of light swirled about a spot near the centre of the chamber. Surrounding them was the smoky black outline of a figure that was, but for the scale, almost human. The voice shifted, changing to Slave’s language. Not the language common to most of the world, but the language he and Sondelle had spoken when Sondelle wished their words to be secret from any listeners. Slave believed it to be an ancient language of sorcerers. As far as he knew no one else in the world spoke it.
‘So,’ the smoky figure said, ‘you have come to me at last.’
‘Who are you?’ Slave replied in the same language.
‘You know my name,’ the thing said. ‘But you do not know who I am.’
‘I don’t like riddles,’ Slave said.
‘But you are one — one that I do not think even you know the answer to, yet.’
Slave was about to raise his fist in defiance, but found his fingers wrapped again around his Claw. He lifted the weapon, as if brandishing it at the looming shape. For an instant, Slave felt as though the beast actually flinched.
‘Do you know what that thing is?’ the beast asked. Its voice was oddly restrained. Not quiet, but almost conversational. The change was disconcerting.
Slave remembered another time when he had been asked that question, soon after the Claw had come into his possession. His answer then seemed appropriate here.
‘It’s mine,’ he said.
Nothing could have prepared Slave for the beast’s response. It seemed to collapse in on itself, shrinking down to a tiny sphere in which the three swirling lights were barely visible. In that moment, that fraction of a heartbeat, Slave felt a deep, shuddering cold. It seemed as if all the air, all the warmth in the chamber had been sucked out before the sphere exploded.
A wave of searing hot energy surged out, sending Slave crashing backward. He tumbled over bodies, bouncing out of control. Around him, the robes of the fallen caught fire as they were swept along. Feeling the heat scorch his exposed skin, Slave wrapped his arms around his face. He was thrown about like a leaf, crashing into the floor, the burning bodies and all manner of detritus until he slammed hard into the wall where he hung, pinned against the stone by the blast of energy.
The heat built up until he could feel the leather against his skin start to blacken and crack as it dried out. Smoke curled from his clothes, his hair crisped. Pain spread through his body, rapidly building to a crescendo that would threaten his control.
‘Not again,’ Slave gasped. He knew his body would struggle to survive were he to lose control here, so soon after the rage that had left such a trail of death.
The wave of heat abruptly ceased, together with the force that held Slave pinned against the wall. He slid down to the floor, breathless with the pain. No sooner had he landed then another force picked him up and hurled him back against the wall. His head struck the stone, sending sparks of white and red exploding against the inside of his eyes. The shock weakened his grip on the Claw. Before he could react, the weapon slipped from his grasp and fell. It struck the stone floor with a shockingly loud noise. There was a sudden burst of silver light and once again the force holding Slave off the ground ceased. He fell, crying aloud as he landed. His hand reached out for his Claw, but it had landed on one of its blades and was embedded in the stone. Slave gripped and pulled, but it would not move.
A hand, massive and powerful, came down on his outstretched arm. Over the sound of the impact and the white-hot agony that suddenly ripped through him, Slave clearly heard the crack of breaking bone. A scream escaped his lips before he could clamp down and stifle it.
‘So, you can be hurt,’ the monstrous beast said. Its voice was lighter, almost amused this time. ‘I was beginning to wonder what I had to do to hurt you.’
Slave forced himself to sit up, cradling his broken arm against his chest. He gritted his teeth as he felt the broken bone with the fingers of his other hand. The break was not clean. There were three or four pieces of bone he could easily feel. One piece had torn through the flesh. He pushed it back inside, tears of pain springing to his eyes.
Such agony. So much pain ripped through him. He could barely breathe, let alone focus on the words of the thing of darkness that loomed over him. The room wavered in his vision, flickering unsteadily as if he were seeing it through water. Blood from his many wounds seeped out of his body to pool around him.
Is it this time? Is it now that you take me, death, my old friend?
Slave’s consciousness shimmered like the room, weaving a tangled thread of the half seen, the half understood. The darkness within him had fled with the pain of his arm, while the darkness without pulled back as a gentle light eased its way into his sight, insinuating itself into the black. There might have been a word spoken, it might have been a low growl of some indistinct emotion, or he might have imagined it, but the thing that had attacked him faded away. Slave slumped, preparing himself to bleed to death here in this strange charnel house of his own making.
A light touch of delicate fingers on his shoulder shocked him into alertness. He looked up into Myrrhini’s wide eyes.
‘Are you hurt?’ she asked.
The folly of the question nearly made Slave laugh. He nodded his head.
‘A bit,’ he said.
‘We need to get you out of here.’
Slave tried to stand, but his limbs would not answer his summons to action. He remained slumped and nearly dead in the pool of his own blood. Myrrhini crouched beside him, apparently not caring about the blood that soaked her knees, and slipped her arm beneath his shoulders. As she strained to lift him, his m
ind bizarrely, obscenely, went back to the times of passion they had shared. He recalled her naked body pressed against his, his physical response — so different to his lack of emotional response — and her breath hot and close to his face. Her breath was as hot now as she strained to lift him, but smelled of blood rather than the daven smell that hovered about her. She grunted with the effort of lifting him, shifting her position around so that the top of her tunic gaped open. The sudden flash of white skin beneath the black fabric drew his eyes down to her small, perfectly shaped breasts. His sudden flash of arousal startled him.
Desire?
I want her?
Now?
The inexplicable rush of carnality shocked him. He had never truly desired her before. Their passion had always been nothing more than physical need, the base urge to procreate, to be with a woman, but this — here and now — was more. He wanted her. As if acting of its own volition, his unbroken arm slipped around her waist. He leaned on her, using her as a support to lever himself up onto his feet, but was really just using the excuse to touch her. His fingers spread out to feel the fabric of her tunic, to recall the softness of the skin beneath it.
What are you doing?
He strove against the need but the wash of base urges flooded him with feelings far deeper than simple emotions. Raw animal hunger rose within him, forcing him to envisage taking her, with or without her consent, right there, right then, amid the corpses, the death and the stench. His hand gripped the fabric of her tunic and he feigned a stumble, pulling against her, rending her tunic a little, enough for his fingers to touch her skin. The warmth of it, the feel of her life pulsing through her flesh, the flow of muscle as she regained her balance from his stumble, pushed him further. With a snarl, he shoved himself away from her, staggering with the effort. Even as he pulled away, his fingers gripped the edge of the tear in her tunic and ripped it further. Myrrhini reached out to him, as if to support him. She seemed unaware that the back of her dress hung open.
‘Slave,’ she said. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Stay away from me,’ Slave spat. He held his hand up, meaning to ward her off, but discovered that he was again holding his Claw. Instead of warning her, he realised he was brandishing a weapon at her. She raised her hands to her mouth and backed away.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘I … I don’t know. Something is happening to me.’
‘I know what it is,’ Myrrhini said softly. Her flaming eyes flared suddenly as a brilliant silver flash shot through the orange fire. ‘I can See it.’
‘What is it?’
Myrrhini raised one hand to point at something beyond Slave’s right shoulder. He snapped his head around to look, but saw nothing.
‘What is it?’ he repeated.
Myrrhini’s eyes widened as if in fear. She stepped back, her foot catching on a corpse, causing her to stumble. A small cry escaped her as she lost her balance. Slave caught her hand and pulled her to him before she fell. Her body slammed into his. Pain shocked through him. From her cry and the way tears sprang to her eyes, Slave guessed Myrrhini experienced pain also.
‘What do you See?’ Slave demanded.
‘It is here,’ she said.
Her eyes remained focused over his shoulder at what she could See with those flickering, flame-filled eyes. She wrapped her arms around him with ferocity as her breath started to come in short, harsh pants. Her long fingers raked across his back as if in the throes of passion as she squirmed against him.
‘I never imagined it could be so … beautiful,’ she groaned.
Slave pushed her away with his undamaged arm. He looked intently at her face, seeing a woman in ecstasy. Her throat and neck were flushed, her lips were parted and her burning eyes were wide. Slave braced himself against the coming pain and slapped her across the cheek.
If the pain that shot through his damaged arm into his battered body was intense for him, Myrrhini looked as if she had been impaled. She shrieked, staggering back with her hands going to her cheek, which was already showing signs of bruising. Once again, her foot caught on a corpse, but this time she fell without Slave catching her. He let her land heavily on a dark-robed body, more curious to see what she would do than out of any desire to allow her to come to harm. She did not disappoint him.
In the moment she landed, her eyes flared with redoubled brilliance. Her body tensed, went rigid, then she rose like a plank of wood being lifted to stand erect. A snarl issued from her mouth, followed by a series of syllables spat out like curses. The sounds came fast and staccato, too rapid for Slave to pick out more than one or two words, none of which made any sense.
Myrrhini began to glow from within. Her hair rose as if being blown by a breeze, twisting, swirling like a living thing. Her entire body radiated light that escaped from every gap in her clothing, every tiny hole in the weave of her dress. She raised her arms above her head and tilted her head back until she faced the ceiling. The light from her eyes and hands illuminated the distant dome, causing the darkness to flee. Slave looked up at the brilliantly lit ceiling and gasped. It was time to leave. He moved quickly, grabbing Myrrhini and slinging her across his shoulder as though she were a sack, and ran.
31
Keshik wanted to react, but the shock was too much. The perfume had been familiar, but too far buried in his past for true recall. The woman seated before him was as impossible as she was real.
‘Bai?’ he said. ‘You’re dead.’
She laughed, the sound striking a painful chord in Keshik’s memory, releasing a flood of images he thought he had lost.
‘So you have spoken to Adrast recently,’ Bai said.
Keshik could only nod dumbly.
‘I am not dead,’ Bai went on. ‘Just hiding.’
‘Why?’
‘Why am I not dead? Or why am I hiding?’
‘Hiding, obviously.’
‘How much do you know about what is happening here in Asnuevium?’
‘Know? Not much. Guess? Quite a bit.’
‘Keshik? Guessing? Since when?’
‘Since I was exiled from the Tulugma in disgrace.’
‘A travesty, but a travesty within the laws of the Tulugma. So Keshik, tell me what you have guessed.’
‘You’re under siege from an army that has yet to attack. There is a fleet out there on the sea that is holding a blockade, sinking anything that goes out, but letting in just about anything. To the landward, there is an army just out of range that is just sitting there, waiting for something.’
‘Almost right. They have been sinking every ship, coming in or going out. You’ve been mixing with some clever people recently.’
Keshik ignored the jibe to press on. ‘What I can’t work out is what is happening inside the walls. Where is the military presence? Is there a curfew? Who is maintaining control?’
Bai tapped her finger on her chin, a habit of hers Keshik remembered from long ago. She did it when she was thinking, or at least she used to.
‘There is no military presence,’ she said eventually.
‘What?’
‘The army out there has not just been sitting out there the whole time. They came out of nowhere about fifty days ago and destroyed the prime of the Asnuevium army, tore it apart like a spurre would take a mouse. It was over in half a day. Then they pulled back and they’ve been sitting there ever since.’
‘Waiting?’
‘Probably, but for what?’
Behind him, the shapeshifter gave a hiss, not unlike that of a small cat, but louder. Keshik turned his head to regard her as she shimmered and returned to human form. He was familiar with Tatya’s transformation, but he had never really paid that much attention to it. This shapeshifter was hostile to him, so the details of her transformation might prove important at some stage. He fixed his attention on her change. Her outline blurred, becoming fluid as her body transformed. The striped coat seemed to melt and flow into flesh as her body straightened, her front legs transfo
rming into arms as her hind legs lengthened. The whole shift was done in moments, but it seemed to take longer as Keshik concentrated. He wondered how vulnerable a shapeshifter would be during the alteration.
‘You don’t know the history of this city, do you?’ she asked when she stood as a naked human before him.
‘No.’
‘You should.’
‘Why?’
Bojhan picked up a warm-looking robe from the floor and wrapped it around her shoulders. She accepted it with the briefest of smiles before pulling it tightly around her, the expression fading so fast Keshik might have missed it had he blinked at the wrong moment.
‘Apros is the oldest of the Eleven Kingdoms,’ she said. ‘It was established here, between the three seas, before any other civilisations. It predates everything and everyone in the world. They fear only Mertian sorcery. Everything is younger than Apros, everything is seen by Asprosians as new and untried, even religions and beliefs. The Asprosians are jaded in a way that no one else can really understand, so they try everything. If there is a perversion, a belief, a sick practice anywhere in the world, the Asprosians do it, and do it with skill.’
‘So?’
‘Here under Asnuevium, there is an exact copy of the labyrinth that was built under Vogel, complete with a temple to the Great Revenants. It was, I believe, built by the same people who built the original.’
Keshik’s shock was complete. He was unable to do anything beyond stare like some slack-jawed peasant.
‘Why?’ he was finally able to say.
‘There is only one question the Asprosians recognise — “Why not?” Someone wanted it, so they had it built.’
‘A temple? To the Revenants?’
The shapeshifter nodded. ‘There are those in Asnuevium who worship the things you and Slave released onto the world.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I have seen them.’
‘No, not that — how do you know about what Slave and I did?’
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