Gray’s face fell.
‘A magical phrase,’ Ba’al said, beckoning him to approach, ‘that I will teach only to you. But I warn you—once spoken, this phrase cannot be taken back, reverse uttered, or silenced. It is free, then. Use it under the direst of circumstances, human. Use it only and only to save the soul of Adri Sen from falling into the wrong hands, for there is no other need to summon this evil into the land of the living.’
Gray, disappointed at the mention of a mere phrase being his gift, now looked worried. He shuffled as close to the Demon Commander as possible. ‘Whisper it to me,’ he stammered.
‘Even a whisper will activate it,’ Ba’al said, handing Gray a small ring with a plain, muddy stone upon it. ‘Wear this. The stone comes off. A parchment with the phrase is folded underneath.’
Gray took the small, dull ring and slipped it on. It fit perfectly.
‘What does the phrase do?’ he asked.
‘It will awaken the Sadhu’s Shotgun,’ Ba’al said.
Stunned, Gray glanced at the shotgun hanging innocuously from the side of his backpack. Blood. Lots of it.
‘The best weapon that I give you, though, is Zabrielle,’ Ba’al said, and they saw then that the Demon Mage was with them, silently observing the Aathir.
‘My eyes and ears, Zabrielle,’ Ba’al spoke in the Old Tongue.
‘I will protect and guide,’ Zabrielle replied, bowing.
‘Are you accepting the offer of the Aathir?’ Ba’al asked Maya.
It would be madness not to. We don’t have days to spare. She nodded. Maya had already wanted to leave in the night, leave right after the Horseman’s roar, but Ba’al insisted that they wait until morning. There were certain things that would not follow them in the light.
‘The Aathir avoid the Whispering Pashan,’ Ba’al said. ‘They will take you there, and you must walk onward to the Frayed Gate.’
‘Thank you, Demon Commander.’
‘May light brighten your path,’ Ba’al said seriously, and walked past them into the tower. A clear dismissal, Maya observed, and one reminding them of how quickly they needed to be off. She turned to the creatures that were to carry them on this first leg of their journey. The Aathir did not have reins or saddles, and Maya and Gray had to struggle to get on.
A quiet goodbye from Hermlock, and they were off, Maya wondering about secret phrases and the power of words.
‘Were you trained in horse riding as well?’ Gray asked Fayne as the Aathir began to move towards the twin gates in a steady jog.
‘Arms around the neck,’ Fayne said. ‘Once the Aathir gain speed, you will need something to hold on to.’
‘You didn’t answer me!’
‘Ahzad is among the mountains. There is no path for horses there.’
‘Then where?’
‘Ahzad. But on a beast wilder,’ Fayne replied shortly.
The Aathir knew where they were going. The gates that opened for them, Gray noted, were not the same ones they had entered from. The Aathir chose a different direction for them, a different highway from the five. And then they started to run.
It was unbelievable, the speed, almost supernatural. The Aathir did not buckle and jerk like horses, they almost glided, their hooves seemingly not even touching the hard concrete and tar below. The four of them held on for fear of being swept off by the wind. Landscapes went by. Gray opened his eyes, having shut them earlier because of the wind whipping his face, and saw distant monoliths. Giant rocks. Mountains. The highway was approaching an enormous hill, cutting through it like a knife. The Aathir slowed as they reached the hill.
Maya’s face stung from the wind. ‘Where are we?’ she asked aloud to no one in particular.
‘The Whispering Pashan,’ Zabrielle replied. ‘The Aathir will not go any further.’
Maya’s eyes went wide. ‘We’re there already? How long have we been riding?’
Fayne looked at the sun. ‘About two hours.’
The Aathir slowly trotted to a stop. The highway went on before them, disappearing in a curve into the mountain. A pass. From here, they would have to walk.
‘A journey of days, made in hours,’ Maya said, dismounting. She looked at the Aathir. ‘Thank you,’ she said to the beast. The Aathir bowed its head, gently, and then, in the very next moment, it imploded. The implosion took Maya and Gray by surprise; the creature simply got pulled into itself, soundlessly, with a sudden rhythmic vibe. The neck, the body, the legs, the tail, they were all pulled into one central sphere-like gathering, and then it was gone, then it was dust the wind caught. One by one, the four Aathir took their leave. It was hypnotic, and they all watched quietly, a silent ode to the Aathir, to their inherent nobility, their service, and perhaps, their sacrifice. In seconds nothing was left but the four of them, looking back, nothing but the highway behind them, large expanses of land on the sides, ranges in the foggy distance. Ba’al’s tower was visible no longer.
We’re not under his protection anymore.
‘Why did they stop here?’ Gray asked.
‘The Aathir do not like the Whispering Pashan,’ Zabrielle repeated. ‘If you ask me, I do not blame them, Gray.’
It was the first time she had used Gray’s name and he found the feeling strange. He had expected a Demon equivalent of myrkho, or perhaps human. Maya asked the question he should have.
‘What is it about this place?’
‘We should not waste the hours,’ Fayne said. ‘Ask as we walk.’
True.
The pass, when they came upon it, was wide, and the hill, it towered over the sides, imposing in girth, a dark brown stone without any signs of flora. The sky had become a thin line far above them, and dark shadows fell, darkening the highway within.
‘A place of memories, good and bad,’ Zabrielle broke the silence. ‘There was a man, a philosopher, Erik Zamheikr, who did endless research on stones, stones of all kinds and their interaction with chaos. It is difficult to explain this—the book was truly wonderful. He was the one who discovered the Pashan, the stone famous for drinking blood.’
‘Drinking?’ Gray asked, making a face.
‘Blood spilt on the Pashan does not stain,’ Zabrielle said. ‘There is no evidence, no memory. The rock drinks moisture of all kinds, even something as dense and heavy as blood.’
‘Are all the stones here Pashan?’ Maya asked.
‘Let me complete my story, Maya,’ Zabrielle said, calmly.
‘I didn’t know it was one.’
‘Of course it is. I wouldn’t talk about Zamheikr, bless him, for nothing. And yes, to answer your question, all the stones here are Pashan, every single one of them. And the story must go on now. Let me talk about the dreaded Dirty Knives.’
‘I do not know if we have time for stories, Demon,’ Fayne said. ‘We should be on our guard.’
Zabrielle looked at Fayne. ‘And how much do you know of this place, masked one?’
‘I know enough.’
‘Then you must appreciate the need for the tale. One requires knowledge to pass through unharmed. You know, as well as I do, that in this case, the knowledge involved is of a very specific kind.’
When Fayne remained silent, Zabrielle took it as acquiescence.
‘How can this place harm us?’ Maya asked. Gray noticed her clenched fists.
‘The Whispering Pashan does not scratch or maim you. No, it goes after your mind, something far more vulnerable.’
‘Is the place alive?’ Gray asked, looking at a nearby stone warily.
‘The rocks,’ Zabrielle said. ‘Life is a curious thing, and here, in the Pashan, we see an example of how it is so varied, how it gives us so many interpretations of itself, the elusive riddle that it is. This place houses memories, it holds its own past in a very high place, and with great pride. All those not versed in its history may not pass.’
‘A test,’ Maya said. Zabrielle nodded.
They walked, slow and careful. The wide expanse behind them slowly got cut
from view, a little at a time, as the road curved gently. Their footsteps got louder, as did their voices. More echoes. There was nothing here but the road and the rocks, the mountain on either side, the sky still a scratch over their heads.
Zabrielle led the group. Gray thought she resembled a school teacher, out with her rather deadly students for a field trip.
‘Well, tell us the damn story,’ Maya said softly, alert.
‘The Dirty Knives. Have you heard of them?’ Zabrielle started. Gray opened his mouth but Zabrielle continued. A storytelling device then, not an actual question, Gray realised.
‘A band of murderers, plunderers, brigands. They were led by a gentleman named Dahouffe. Dahouffe Deadeye, they called him. He is said to have been a businessman once, a tall, handsome gent who lived as an importer in Frozen Bombay. You know, of course, that the Drakes have always run that city, all the generations—at that unrevealed time, the Sea Lord was someone called Gibraltar Drake Jr. Now, card games were very common in Frozen Bombay, and still are. There was a game of Whist, a single game now remembered as legendary.’
Zabrielle paused as a slow gust of wind blew towards them, a soothing, silent bit of wind, coming from the depths of the mountain. It came and went with ease.
‘Faster,’ Fayne said.
The Demon Mage nodded. ‘The game was between many players, but among them were Dahouffe and Drake. They were fierce in the game, almost at each other’s throats, and when the betting got grave, they bet more than money. Dahouffe put his entire business at stake, the business he had worked half his life to build, everything. Drake, of course, bet the keys to his kingdom, the right to govern, thus putting his entire Sea Lord lineage at risk—’
‘I know this story!’ Gray interrupted. ‘I have heard of the Dirty Knives as well. My grandmother told me about them, about this game.’
Silence.
‘She didn’t tell me,’ Maya said.
‘Oh. Basically, Dahouffe loses and then starts his own gang,’ Gray recited.
‘There is a fashion in the telling of a story, Gray,’ Zabrielle said, a tinge of annoyance in her voice. ‘And in this place, this fashion is linked to your survival.’
‘I’m sorry!’ Gray exclaimed. ‘It’s just that—we’re supposed to do this fast, right? Before something happens—’
‘There are things even your grandmother did not tell you. Let me complete the story,’ Zabrielle said.
‘What? Why would she not—’
‘Because children are not told of sex, and affairs,’ Zabrielle said. Gray stopped in mid-sentence and fell silent.
‘There were politics at play behind the card game,’ Zabrielle picked up the story again. ‘The game was like a mask, like the mask you wear, assassin, to hide what lies within. It was simply a means, a tool to resolve this conflict. See, Dahouffe had wooed the spouse of Gibraltar Drake Jr. Her name was Anulekha, and she was an exotic woman; tales of her beauty you will find in that city to this day.
‘Dahouffe and Anulekha had an affair, a passionate affair that became quite well known in the city. And of course, Drake did not take kindly to it. He swore upon his Leviathan Seal that he would have his revenge for this insult, and it was he who organised the card game. As stories go, it is said that the ultimate prize for the winner was, of course, Anulekha herself. The stories also say that Drake cheated, that he had a custom deck of cards built to his advantage, that things like even the shuffling of cards was perfectly controlled. And indeed, Dahouffe accused him of cheating after he lost, and Drake’s men took him out to the street, beat him within an inch of his life, broke his bones, and left him to bleed. And Dahouffe, bleeding to death on the street, among the snow, called out to Anulekha, but she did not come.
‘She was busy,’ Zabrielle smiled briefly, though the others did not notice. ‘She shot Drake that night after he came back, stone drunk and victorious, and tried to shave her bald. She shot him, and then she went to the balcony of Drake Manor, where she had a clear view of the street, and of Dahouffe sprawled on it. She took brief aim and shot Dahouffe as well. Then she went back in, and started to pack. But there was one person she had not accounted for—Drake Senior, Gibraltar’s father, the old man in the wheelchair who would restrict himself to his quarters. The servants say the old man wheeled himself up behind her as she was packing, and then clubbed her to death with his cane. He called the servants then, and sent for a chef’s knife from the kitchens.
‘On the street, Dahouffe felt people pick up his body. He was almost dead, but even with his limited senses, he knew people were taking him back inside Drake Manor, the same people who had broken him. His wounds were nursed that night, the pistol ball removed from his shoulder. The old man met him the next morning as Dahouffe lay in a giant bed, unable to move. Drake Senior told him he had no use for Dahouffe’s business, no use for anything Dahouffe could offer him. His son had been careless, and Drake was returning Dahouffe’s property to him. With that, the old man gave Dahouffe several things—the deeds to the business which he had previously lost, the key to Dahouffe’s house, and the severed head of Anulekha, the skin white, bloodless, the eyes wide, staring.
‘Dahouffe lay frozen. The old man left without a word, and the nurse who was taking care of Dahouffe told him, very gently, that the bags that Anulekha had packed before she was murdered were filled to the brim with gold. Only gold. Dahouffe did not believe the nurse. That night, he crept out of bed, despite his wounds, and grabbing a heavy candle stand, made his way through the manor, searching for the killer of his beloved. The old man was awake and waiting for him, pistol in hand. The pistol, however, misfired. The next morning the servants found the old man’s body. He had been decapitated—his head was missing, the rest of the body sat in the old wheelchair, and in the lap was placed Anulekha’s head, cold lips parted in a gleeful smile.’
‘My . . . my grandmother skipped this bit,’ Gray mumbled.
‘Dahouffe burned the deeds,’ Zabrielle continued. ‘And he fled from the city. When he next appeared, it was as an outlaw, as Dahouffe Deadeye, leading a bunch of bandits, the famous Dirty Knives. Their hideout was here, in the Whispering Pashan.’
‘What happened to them in the end?’ Maya asked.
‘Soul Hunters,’ the Demon said. ‘The Drakes still had a successor, young Francois Drake, twelve years of age. He hired ten Soul Hunters, who pursued the Dirty Knives relentlessly for years and waged a war that slowly killed off both the sides. The Knives made their last stand here, in the Pashan, seven of them against the last three Soul Hunters. It was Zel-ih-Sham who survived the entire ordeal, the youngest and most inexperienced Soul Hunter, yet the one who struck the killing blow on Dahouffe’s back. The Knives were wiped out.’
‘Then?’ Gray asked.
‘The story is over,’ Zabrielle said. ‘Prepare yourselves.’
They kept walking. The wind, the gentle wind did not blow again. All the road did was take gradual turns. All the stones seemed capable of was silence. And all that was heard was the sound of their footsteps. It seemed endless to Gray, this walk. He wanted to ask Zabrielle how long of a walk it was going to be, but he did not, somehow. He did not want to be the one to disturb this quiet, now that Zabrielle had stopped talking. Maya seemed distant again, she walked beside him, but she did not meet his eyes when he looked at her.
Gray tried to recall his grandmother’s story, of what had been different. His grandmother had been different, he thought lightly. If she had lived on, Gray could imagine her telling him dark stories like this one. She had been capable of such stories. He tried remembering her, but her face, in all its details, would not appear. Gray closed his eyes for a second to remember her better.
He opened them, and he was alone. Stopping immediately, he looked around. No Maya. No Fayne. Certainly no dreadlocked Demon. ‘Guys?’ Gray muttered. He turned around. The road behind him was empty, as was the road before. Rising panic. He tried to fight it.
‘Maya! MAYA!’ Gray shouted. ‘Fayn
e! Where are you?’
Silence. Nothing. Just the echo of his voice creeping through the pass.
‘Can you hear me?’ he shouted again. Again nothing. Nothing, except his rising heartbeat. He could feel it. Instinctively, he gripped the Sadhu’s Shotgun and pried it off his bag. The walls weren’t brown anymore, they were blue. He looked up. Moonlight. It was night.
‘Impossible,’ Gray said, and knew this was it. This was the Pashan, this was the test.
He wanted to stand there, right there, for all of eternity, but somehow, after what seemed like hours, he took a single step forward. Then, slowly, another. ‘Walk deeper,’ Gray murmured to himself. ‘I have to walk deeper.’ Sliding the shotgun’s safety, he slowly advanced down the road.
He looked down at his feet. A fine mist was slowly curling its way around his shoes. He looked up and saw the road cloaked with the same mist, a soft white smoke, almost alive, hugging the road, swirling. Gray was scared. He did not know what was coming, or what he would need to do. He did not know if he would see his sister again.
Another curve in the path, and a figure came into view. A woman. Tall, wearing a maroon dress, face hidden from view. Gray could see her hair, though—it was black, and fell in long, vicious curls around her shoulders. Gray stopped walking again. He knew who she was.
‘Uh—excuse me?’ he called out loudly.
The woman did not move.
Gray cleared his throat noisily. ‘Madam?’
The figure stood, silent as ever, facing one of the rock walls. Gray wondered if he could simply walk past her, but he did not have the nerve. Sneaking past the witches had been bad enough; it still gave him nightmares.
‘Miss!’ he screamed.
She must have heard him this time. Of course she had, just as she had heard him the last time. No, he needed to do it. He needed to say it. He took a deep breath, tightening his grip on the shotgun.
‘Anulekha,’ Gray said in the softest of whispers.
The woman turned. She was beautiful, Gray realised in a split second, and she was terrifying. Her face was long, bony, her skin old, white, bloodless, her lips black. Her eyes were black too, a soulless black, devoid of anything as they stared at Gray. She was tall, shapely, graceful in the way she stood. Then Gray noticed the dress—it was not maroon. It had been white.
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