“Khyber’s Gate?” said Cutter in surprise. “But that’s Daask territory.”
“That’s all I know! I swear.”
“Last question. Did you see a girl there? With red hair?”
Salkith frowned. “Nobody else was there. We were alone.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I am! Now let me out of here!”
Cutter gathered his knives, then leaned over and picked up the vial of dreamlily the nurse had been holding. The bottle held at least twenty doses.
Cutter poured it all down Salkith’s throat, clamping the halfling’s mouth shut so he was forced to swallow.
That should keep him out of commission for a while, he thought, closing the door on the halfling’s incoherent cries.
Cutter sighed. Another dead end. He was no closer to finding Rowen. He sheathed his knives. What was he supposed to do now?
Dajin was nowhere to be seen. Cutter yanked open the door that led to the corridor.
Two men stood there. Cutter reached for his knives but someone gripped his arms from behind. He kicked out, feeling his boot connect with a hard stomach. One of his attackers staggered back, struggling to regain his breath.
Cutter was just about to kick out again when the other man lifted a glass vial filled with white fluid. He splashed it into Cutter’s face.
The scent of the liquid hit him and seemed to crawl down his throat of its own accord. He felt it course through his body, a trail of warmth and heaviness.
Couldn’t swallow.
Couldn’t breathe.
His veins felt like they were filled with sluggish fluid. His whole body felt heavy. He sagged, his eyelids drooping.
The last thing he saw was the boot of the man he had just kicked coming at his face.
Cutter yawned and stoked the fire, sitting close to the low flames in an attempt to feed some warmth into his body. Dawn was approaching, a single line of pink and orange that stretched across the wide horizon. The solitary cry of an eagle echoed over the steppe. He looked up, but the bird was invisible against the night-touched sky.
A slight wind shivered the short grass of the steppe, but it was warm, carrying the scent of flowers and rain. Finally, thought Cutter. The first hint of spring.
The camp began to stir as the morning slowly brightened. Elves crept from their low, stretched-out tents and called greetings to each other. Wood was piled atop banked fires, hands held before the flames. The wind might promise spring, but the early mornings still belonged to winter.
He heard movement behind him, the scuffing of soft leather soles on the dry scrub. A moment later, Thalian knelt next to him.
“The Ancestors bless your day,” the Keeper said formally.
“And yours,” replied Cutter.
Thalian didn’t say anything else. Cutter glanced sideways at him, studying his angular face. The young elf was a Keeper of the Past, the priesthood of the Valenar elves that maintained the memory of the great elf heroes of Xen’drik. They had known each other for three years now, so Cutter could tell when something was bothering the elf.
“What is it?” he asked.
“The messenger who arrived yesterday …” began Thalian.
“Yes?”
“King Vadallia has called our clan to serve him in Taer Valaestas.”
“And?”
“And, slaves are … frowned upon by the King.”
Cutter frowned and turned to the fire. The events of three years ago ran through his head. It was as if he were seeing them in the flames, replayed in the fire like they were replayed every night in his dreams.
He had been sleeping when it happened—or more accurately, passed out. He awoke to the horrendous rending of splintering wood as the ship he traveled on hit a reef off the southeast coast of Valenar. He was flung from his bed into the cabin wall. All around him was pitch darkness. He hadn’t bothered to activate the everbright globe when he started drinking that afternoon. He could hear the screams of the passengers, the shouts of the captain and his crew as they tried to do something to save the foundering vessel. But it was too late. He crawled on hands and knees to where he thought the hatch should be, and yanked it open. Icy cold water lapped at his hands and knees. A few seconds later, it was up to his wrists.
He staggered up to the deck and saw the captain and his first mate lower the tiny fishing boat strapped to the side of the ship and make their escape. Everyone else was forced to leap into the sea and fight for their lives against the fierce breakers that tried to pound them against lethally sharp rocks.
Out of thirty, only seventeen survived, dragging themselves to the shore and gasping for air, crying out thanks to the Sovereign Host and the Silver Flame.
They should have saved their prayers. All they’d done was exchange one danger for another. Malleas and his war clan had skirted the coastline as the ship sailed north. The Valenar captured the weakened group, the chief’s pet wizard binding them with a spell that he said was infinitely more powerful than cold steel.
Cutter hadn’t believed him. That first night, he tried to escape.
As soon as he stepped beyond the boundaries of the camp, his whole body exploded with pain. Burning fire surged through this limbs, every vein a tiny river that carried red-hot lava to every part of his being. Each step he took increased the intensity of the pain, sent slivers of splintered glass stabbing into his brain until he had no idea who he was or where he was going. All he knew was that he had to keep moving, had to escape.
He managed to walk a full mile before he collapsed. Scouts carried him back to the camp, where Thalian watched over him, tending his body as Cutter spent the next week hovering between life and death.
Only six of the original captives were left, the others dead from accidents or killed by Malleas for displeasing him.
“Did you hear me?” asked Thalian, adding wood to the fire.
“I heard you. What does he plan on doing with us? I assume releasing us isn’t on the agenda.”
“I … don’t think so, no.” Thalian leaned closer to Cutter. “Maybe I can help. Find out how to break the spell—”
“Forget it. The only way we get free is if Malleas lets us go.”
Cutter stood and stretched his limbs. He glanced at the largest tent, set in the center of the camp.
He looked to Thalian and smiled coldly. “Or if he’s dead.” Cutter strode toward the tent. “Malleas!” he shouted. “Face me, you coward!”
Cutter was aware of the whole camp turning to look at him in amazement. He didn’t care. What did he have to lose? He was dead if he did nothing. He might as well go out fighting.
It was what he did best.
He stopped before the entrance to the tent. A moment later, two hands slipped between the flaps and parted the hide to both sides.
Malleas ducked through the opening. He yawned and looked around the camp, checking to make sure everything was proceeding normally. Acting like he didn’t have a care in the world. Only when he had satisfied himself that all was well did he turn his gaze to Cutter.
“What did you say, little man?”
“I said you are a coward. Your ancestors have abandoned you, Malleas. You shame them with your actions.”
Malleas stepped forward. He was the same height as Cutter, but Cutter was broader than the chief, the labor of the past years sculpting his body.
“What do you know of my ancestors?” Malleas said softly. He rested his hands on twin Khutai blades strapped to his waist. “My ancestor came to this continent with four companions at his side. They raided a human village and defeated their best fighters. The rest they took as slaves.” He took another step forward until he was no more than an arm’s length from Cutter. “So do not presume to tell me I shame my ancestors. I praise them.”
“So do I. Every morning when I take a piss.”
That did it. Malleas’s eyes went dead. He moved forward until his face was inches from Cutter’s. “You will choke on those words, outlander.
I raise prayers to the ghosts of my ancestors every night and they whisper sweet compliments in my ears.” His voice rose in volume. “I please them with my actions. The pyres I burn lift their names to the sky in honor! Every death, every wound inflicted is a salute to their names, and never is it enough! So do not tell me I shame my ancestors!” Malleas stopped, seemingly aware that he was losing control. He straightened, glanced about at those watching, then turned to Cutter with a smirk. “Now run along and do your job, Cutter. Chop the wood I will use to burn your worthless carcass. I will inhale the smoke of your soul. I will own your death.”
Cutter waited a moment, trying to calm his erratic heartbeat. He was dead. He knew that. He reminded himself that the only choice left was to decide how he would go. He wondered what his brother would think of him now. Would he be proud? Disappointed?
“You will own no part of me, vadis nia.” In the months he’d spent among the Valenar, Cutter had picked up a lot of their speech—especially insults, which they often hurled at the prisoners. Vadis nia was about the worst thing one could call a Valenar—disgracer of the blood.
That got the reaction Cutter was looking for. Malleas roared and pulled his blades out, but his anger stripped his attack of any precision. Cutter stepped into his reach and blocked the frenzied swipes with his forearms, the dull smack of skin on skin louder than the elf’s snarls.
Cutter waited until he saw Malleas forcibly calm himself, saw the light of calculation enter his eyes, and in that instant of transition, Cutter lashed out and connected with Malleas’s face. His first punch broke the elf’s nose. Then he grabbed hold of the warlord’s wrist and rammed the hilt of the blade into his head. Blood flowed from the scalp wound and dripped into his eye, forcing the elf to blink rapidly to clear his vision.
Cutter managed to get one more hit in, a blow to the stomach, before he leaped back. But before he could dodge out of Malleas’s reach, the elf brought one of the blades down in a wild slash that left a deep gouge in his arm.
The two circled each other warily. The whole camp gathered around to watch the confrontation. Cutter tried his best to ignore them. He was under no illusion that he would survive this day. Even if he won the fight, he would be executed by the clan. Honor would keep them from interfering in the fight, but it wouldn’t stop them from cutting his head off and dragging it behind the horse of the new clan leader.
But that gave him the edge. It meant he had nothing left to lose.
So he ran straight for Malleas. The move surprised the elf, if only because it was suicidally stupid.
Just before he charged within reach, Cutter dropped and barreled into the elf’s legs. They both tumbled to the ground in a confusion of flailing limbs.
Cutter felt a searing pain along his back as one of the blades cut through his clothing. They tussled for position and Cutter grabbed the first thing he could lay his hands on—Malleas’s kneecap. He twisted it as hard as he could. It popped and the elf screamed in pain, thrashing beneath him.
Something smashed into the side of Cutter’s head—the pommel of one of the blades, held awkwardly in Malleas’s hand. Cutter grunted and snapped his head forward, again and again, smashing his forehead into Malleas’s face. All the while he could feel the elf reaching over his shoulder and stabbing into his back with the free blade. The thrusts were weakening, however, and Cutter loosened his grip so he could grab hold of the elf’s neck.
But it was a ruse. As soon as he tried to shift his hold, Malleas grunted and pushed up with his leg, lifting Cutter to his feet. The human stumbled back a few steps, trying to keep his balance, but his heel caught on a clump of scraggly grass and he fell onto his backside.
Malleas was on him in an instant. He collided with Cutter knees-first, forcing Cutter flat onto his back, and brought his knives in on either side for killing blows. Cutter punched the elf in the throat. When Malleas swayed backward, Cutter pulled his legs out from under the elf and kicked him as hard as he could in the chest, sending the elf staggering back into the fire. His trousers caught in the flames, and Cutter used the distraction to push himself to his feet.
He felt blood trickling freely down his back from the numerous wounds. He knew he wouldn’t last much longer. He staggered forward and picked up a piece of wood from the fire. Flames licked at his hand and he felt his skin blistering. Cutter ignored the pain. He brought the log up in a swinging arc that caught the elf beneath the chin. Cutter heard the crack as Malleas’s jaw broke. His head snapped up. Teeth and blood burst from his mouth and fell sizzling into the fire. Cutter dropped the brand and grabbed hold of Malleas’s wrists. He still held the curved knives, now covered in Cutter’s blood. He looked into Malleas’s eyes. The white of the right eye had filled with blood. His face was a ruined pulp of meat. He heard a wet, nasal gurgle as the elf tried to breathe.
Cutter gasped for breath. “You … named me Cutter. You … you thought it an insult.”
Malleas struggled in his grasp.
Cutter tightened his grip. “It is not. I accept the name.”
With that, Cutter lifted Malleas’s arms and forced the elf to cut his own throat, the razor-sharp blades slicing deep into the soft skin of his neck.
Malleas gurgled as he tried to speak, the action causing bubbles to burst from the wound. Then he twitched and fell backward into the fire, sending up an explosion of sparks and smoke.
Cutter staggered away from the flames, then fell to his knees. He was aware that he was holding Malleas’s blades. When had he grabbed them?
He lifted his head to face the death he knew was coming. The elves hadn’t moved. They stood watching Malleas’s body as his clothes caught fire and the flames consumed him.
Then one stepped forward. Vael. He was—had been—Malleas’s second in command. He stood before Cutter, looking down at him.
Cutter tried to smile. “Do what you will. I die free.”
“You will not die this day, Cutter. You have fought fairly and honorably against an armed opponent. Your ancestors would be proud.”
Oh, really? You hear that, brother? Cutter’s thoughts dripped with sarcasm.
“Many here were not … comfortable with Malleas’s leadership of the clan. We—I—planned on challenging him when we reached Taer Valaestas, with the High King as witness.”
And now I’ve done your dirty work for you. Cutter laughed inwardly.
Vael seemed to sense what he was thinking. “Travel with us, Cutter. As a free man.” Vael glanced around, then dropped to his knees so he was level with Cutter. He leaned forward and placed his forehead against Cutter’s, his hand over his heart. “You are a fighter of skill and honor. I invite you to join our clan. Will you accept?”
Cutter hesitated. “Release the others—the slaves.”
“Done. Slavery has no place in my clan.”
Cutter raised his hand and placed it over Vael’s heart.
“Are we one?” asked the elf.
“We are,” said Cutter, and then his eyes rolled up into his head and he collapsed.
Cutter opened his eyes to darkness.
Is it still night, then? His head swam.
He should get back to sleep. They were moving in the morning, heading west to Taer Valaestas. It would be a long ride, and he needed his rest. His head throbbed. His mouth was parched. He smacked his lips, trying to find some moisture, but it was a pointless exercise. Had he been drinking last night? Couldn’t remember. Regardless, he needed water.
He tried to get up but found that he couldn’t move. His hands and legs were tied to a chair. What was this? Betrayal? Cutter blinked his dry eyes, trying to focus on something, anything, in the dim light. Vague shapes began to materialize—crates, barrels of ale, a few chairs, a broken table.
It took him only a moment more to realize he wasn’t in Valenar. He was in the storeroom beneath Silvermist. He thought back to what had happened. Opening the door onto his attackers. That noxious fluid in his face.
Dreamlily. They had given him a co
ncentrated dose of dreamlily. A wave of panic washed over him. How long had he been under? How much time had passed?
He strained against the ropes binding his arms, but they were too tight to give. He tested the bindings around his legs and found they were a bit looser. He braced himself and strained against the bonds. The old chair creaked, the wood slowly giving. He paused for breath then tried again. The wood creaked and splintered, groaning as if in pain. Then, with a final crack, the right front leg snapped and the chair collapsed beneath him. He landed on one knee, the jolt sending a wave of pain through his body.
Cutter winced and pushed himself up. He was hunched over, a leg and both arms still tied to the broken chair. He hopped over to the wall and swung his body around, slamming the chair as hard as he could into the stonework until it smashed apart. He quickly untied the rope and picked up one of the broken legs. It wasn’t heavy, but it would have to do as a weapon. The bastards had taken his blades.
What did they want with him, anyway?
He could make out a faint rectangle of light outlining the door. He hurried through the darkness and put his ear to the wood.
Then he pulled away. He could hear voices on the other side, the sound of people approaching.
He looked quickly around the room. It was too late to pull out another chair and pretend he was still tied up. He had to face them.
He pushed himself up against the wall. A moment later, the door opened and the light from the hall flooded into the room. He could see the shadows of two men in the swath of light that fell across the floor.
“—couldn’t believe it when I saw him. Word is, Tiel wants him bad.”
Tiel? What in Khyber’s name does he want?
Then it hit him. The money he was supposed to collect. Tiel thought he’d stolen it. Cutter frowned. Tough for him, then. He didn’t have time for this.
The two men entered the room. They froze when they saw the pieces of broken chair, but Cutter didn’t give them a chance to do anything more. He stepped forward and swung the chair leg into the back of the near one’s head. The man cried out and dropped to his knees. Cutter shifted his grip and swung again, this time backhand. It slammed across the face of the other man. His head jerked to the side and Cutter brought the leg back for another hit, sending him sprawling on his face. The first man was trying to get to his feet. Cutter brought the leg down on his skull. Blood sprayed across the floor and he collapsed to the side, his head hitting the floor first.
The Inquisitives [2] Night of Long Shadows Page 9