by Peter Newman
For a second time they did not move.
Behind them, he saw Rochant sit up. ‘It’s too late, Vasinidra. They know the truth.’
‘That you’re a traitor?’
‘That you were raised to your new position with the support of an imposter.’ He pointed towards the spot where Satyendra lay. ‘A demon of the Wild. The very same demon I was about to slay and that you have rushed to save.’
He’s not speaking for my benefit, Vasinidra realized. Each of the hunters in front of him stood a little straighter, their doubts banished by Rochant’s words.
How does he always manage to twist things?
‘That’s a lie and you know it!’
‘What I know,’ Rochant replied, stooping to collect his spear, ‘is that you don’t talk to demons or their allies. You destroy them.’
On his order, the hunters closed in, their spears like teeth in a giant’s mouth. But they were only there as a distraction. The real threat, Rochant, was watching, waiting for an opportunity to do more serious damage.
Vasinidra was trapped. He used his own spear to make some space, thrusting randomly to keep the hunters at bay. As they’d been trained, each pair fell back as he attacked, while two other pairs would come forward and harry him. Their weapons scratched at his armour, marring the polished surface as they searched for a weak point.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the hunters had been separated. The hunter was moving strangely, struggling to remove some feathered creature from its back.
Then his attention was back to his own survival as a fresh attack came from the hunters. He ducked, pressing down on his Sky-legs to store energy, and jumped.
For a blissful moment he was free of them. A few spears followed him into the air but they simply glanced off his armour. There were essence currents in the Wild, strong enough to allow flight, but they were treacherous. No wind swept through to lift him to safety and he soon found himself gliding back to earth.
Rochant’s spear shot like a thunderbolt over the heads of the hunters. He saw it coming but there was nothing he could do. There was the clash of sapphire on sapphire, the ringing crack of armour breaking, and then the flash of pain as it buried itself in his side. In his exalted state the pain did not overwhelm him, but he knew he was in trouble.
The impact twisted his body, turning his landing into a sliding shuffle. He kept his feet, just, but by the time he’d righted himself, the hunters were on him again, Rochant at their heels. One of them passed Rochant a new spear.
They didn’t attack immediately. As always, their first priority was to reform a perimeter to ensure he couldn’t escape.
Vasinidra held up a hand. ‘I give you … one more chance. Lay down your weapons and I will spare your lives.’
They didn’t even dignify him with an answer.
The wound in his side was nagging at him but he didn’t dare look at it. One lapse and he was finished. They’d got him now. All they had to do was take their time and he’d go down.
So this is what it feels like to be prey.
He shifted his thinking. Perhaps he could not hope to win this fight, but he could afford to die. Rochant couldn’t. If he could make an opening, he could sell his own life to end the madness. Though everything seemed to revolve around the Scuttling Corpseman, he was convinced that all House Sapphire’s problems stemmed from Rochant.
All he needed was one chance.
No doubt they are thinking the same.
As he studied them and they studied him, so absorbed in each other they were almost like one creature, there was a scream.
It was a human scream, just. It rose and fell unnaturally, as if it were being controlled, dragged out. And it was close.
At first they all ignored it, training and respect for their enemy demanding no less. But as the scream continued, eyes reluctantly began to flicker in that direction.
It was coming from where the lone hunter had gone down. From the spot where Rochant had landed on Satyendra. A hunter lay in the spot where Satyendra had been. Mounted on his Sky-legs, Vasinidra could see him, his eyes staring straight up, his mouth stretched wide. There was blood spreading across the hunter’s chest.
And we are in the Wild!
Two figures stood next to the hunter. One, smaller, was dressed in black feathers. The eyes of the other figure, the taller, burned bright with hatred, its face obscured. They both seemed familiar. The taller one’s right hand was soaked in fresh blood, and its fingers were wrapped around the shaft of the hunter’s spear. That’s Satyendra.
The shorter of the two was trying to leave but Satyendra would have none of it.
‘Hey, Rochant!’ he called, and threw his spear.
Vasinidra didn’t wait to see what would happen next. He jumped. Straight up this time, high enough to have a clear shot at his enemy.
Rochant was already twisting to avoid Satyendra’s spear, but it flew as fast as anything a Deathless could throw, faster even than Rochant could handle, and found a place just under his ribcage.
Lifecycles of training took over for Vasinidra. He saw how the blow had struck Rochant, saw the forced step, knew where he would be standing in two seconds time and threw his own spear with everything he had, aiming for the space between helmet and chest plate.
Even so, Rochant saw it coming.
He couldn’t move aside, but he lifted a hand. Vasinidra’s spear punched straight through the gauntlet and plunged into Rochant’s neck. Not as deep as he would have liked. But deep enough. Their eyes met, Rochant’s widening with shock, and in that moment they both knew they had killed the other. It was just a matter of how long it would take for their bodies to realize and stop working.
Rochant took a few drunken steps.
Vasinidra landed, his own wound roaring at the impact.
Then, all became chaos.
Hunters threw themselves at him.
Hunters broke off to attack Satyendra.
Hunters rushed to Rochant’s side.
Vasinidra fended off their blows, trapping spears, hurling back his aggressors. Others found him. One struck his helmet, making it ring like a bell. He stopped thinking. At least, he stopped thinking about the present.
His body fought on, detached, while his mind drifted. I’m going to die again. He worried about what would happen in his absence. He worried about his mother. Had Rochant managed to destroy her, or would he return to find her waiting, smiling and strong?
Something sharp stung his right wrist. Something heavy struck the back of his leg, bringing him to his knees. Blows struck his back and wings. Not my wings! he thought stupidly.
And then the blows stopped.
He blinked. He was on all fours. Sweat and blood was running off his face and collecting on his visor.
There was fighting all around him, and shouts.
‘Protect the High Lord!’
His brother’s voice. Gada.
A strong hand took his arm, half lifting him. ‘I’m here, Vasin. I’m here.’
Mother?
He smiled and told her that Rochant was dead. Except when he tried to speak, something was in the way.
Nidra’s face filled his vision. She looked worried.
Don’t worry about me. I’ll come back. I’ll be sad to miss the years with you, but I’ll come back.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘We’ve got you,’ and again, ‘we’ve got you.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
They all flinched at the sound of the outer door being breached, as if the blow to the marble was a personal one. And in a way, it was. The House of Seven Doors was a sacred place to all the Deathless, and the idea that a demon of the Wild was here, that it had forced its way into a place of peace, shook Pari to the core.
Though there were many Deathless present, between them representing countless lifecycles of wisdom, none responded immediately. This experience was shocking in its newness, and they had no reference for response. Instead, the five High Lords present,
and Pari and Arkav all turned, stupefied, towards the sound. It did not surprise her that the noise came from the Sapphire passage and she gave a small thanks for the fact that no delegates from House Sapphire were present, and therefore none of their entourage would be facing whatever had just broken through.
And something had come through. They could hear them now. A great cacophony of wings, angrily buzzing, growing louder, closer. Pari recognized the sound from her visit to Sagan. ‘It is the Corpseman!’ she cried. ‘It’s here.’
High Lord Spinel was the first to recover his wits. ‘Quickly, my friends, we must prepare for battle.’
The others nodded and began rushing to their respective exits. Pari had never seen High Lord Priyamvada move so quickly. ‘Lord Arkav. Lady Pari. Hold them off until we are ready to join you.’
‘Yes, High Lord,’ they replied. Pari began unfurling her whip as she moved across the walkway to stand before the entrance to the Sapphire corridor. Arkav came and stood next to her. There was no time for discussion, not even a quick quip. For the swarm was already upon them.
Like a river of wings and clawing hands, they came, heedless of their own safety. There were too many to hold back. Too many to fight. She could barely distinguish one from another, let alone pick out a target as they slammed into her. Body upon body. A senseless, angry mass. She reeled back, teetering, almost falling, before she managed to kick backwards, gliding back to the central stage. Arkav was not so lucky. She could see him on one knee, the Flykin crashing around him like a wave on a rock. And they kept coming, some splitting off to attack the fleeing High Lords, others vanishing up different corridors, still more racing in circles around the perimeter, ripping at the banners as they passed, shredding reds, greens, purples, and whites with careless ease.
The High Lords needed her. They all needed her, but in the end she went to her brother. How could she not after all they had been through? With exalted strength, she grabbed the Flykin that crawled over him and hurled them away until he was able to regain his footing. They didn’t fight her. They didn’t fight him either. It was more like they were obstacles to be got past than enemies to be defeated. As soon as she threw one of the demons clear, it flew off, as if she wasn’t even there.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
He blinked a few times, then looked past her, his eyes widening in horror. A new presence had entered the chamber.
The Scuttling Corpseman.
She knew the demon was here even before she saw it, some sixth sense bringing her head round. It snatched the fleeing High Lord Spinel off the ground and raised him so that his eyes were lined up with the holes in the Corpseman’s skull, its antennae only inches away. Two black-armoured hands gripped the High Lord’s shoulders, while a third held him by the chin. His purple robes were long, obscuring his feet, making him look curiously doll-like. His hair was tied in a series of tight spirals, each laced with fine silver jewellery that trailed ribbons.
The force of the swarm circling them made those ribbons flicker violently, in contrast to the absolute stillness of the two figures. High Lord Spinel was not dead however, his eyes twitched as they matched the tiny movements of the Corpseman’s antennae.
She had been in a similar position in her previous lifecycle when the Corpseman had touched her mind. Whatever it had found there had persuaded it to spare her. It had even been gentle in its own way. The feelings in her gut suggested High Lord Spinel wouldn’t be so lucky.
Was it fear of the Corpseman or loyalty to her house that made Pari turn from the sight and look for her High Lord? Pari wasn’t sure. Using her Sky-legs, she leapt from the platform at House Sapphire’s end, sailing over the central well to land on the matching platform for House Tanzanite.
As she waited for Arkav to catch up, the swarm continued to buzz and circle and bustle in and out of the chamber. They all ignored her. So much so, that she had to duck to avoid several of them as they flitted past. If it had just been her, she’d have assumed that she was benefitting from Rochant’s misplaced love, but Arkav was also being ignored. Could it be our armour? she wondered. No, that didn’t stop the Flykin in Sagan attacking me. We’re not being attacked because we’re not the targets.
High Lord Priyamvada hadn’t got far. They found her body behind the bench for Tanzanite delegates. The Flykin had caught her trying to flee and dragged her back to the main chamber. Her tall hat had fallen off, and the great tent-like robe had been torn from her and dumped nearby. There were no obvious wounds on her body, but the woman was frighteningly still, her eyes closed.
Pari knelt down beside her and noticed an odd glistening on Priyamvada’s skin. As Arkav joined her, he held a bracer over the High Lord’s mouth to see if there was still breath to steam it.
Nothing.
Leaning in closer, however, she saw a slight pulsing at the vein on Priyamvada’s neck, but that wasn’t the thing that drew Pari’s attention. There’s something wrong with her eyelids.
She reached out and tried to open them. There was resistance, some kind of film that covered her from head to toe. It was tacky to the touch, a near translucent yellow that put Pari in mind of the amber set into the Corpseman’s hill. Gradually she eased the sticky lids apart.
In her many lives, Pari had seen a lot of things, a lot of grim and disturbing things. It was inevitable when dealing with the Wild. But nothing had unsettled her stomach more than what lay before her.
There was no eye in the socket. Something had removed it. In its place, deep inside Priyamvada’s skull was a plug of amber. The amber had not fully set and she could see little grubs about the size of her eyelash wriggling around inside it.
No.
She jumped up, needing to put some space between her and the body. Her High Lord wasn’t dead but given what she could see that seemed like a bad thing. As she stood there, stunned, the nightmare continued to unfold around her. Some of the swarm flitted in and out of doors carrying bodies, hunters and servants, and the other High Lords, their proud house colours reduced to rags.
Very slowly, as if by its own accord, her head turned to look back at the Corpseman. It had pulled High Lord Spinel close. From the right angle it would look as if they were kissing. From Pari’s angle she could see the antennae buried deep in the man’s skull.
Once again, bile stirred in her stomach.
The Corpseman let go of his head with its third arm and began running it over the High Lord’s face. She could see some kind of secretion passing from the feelers on its knuckles onto his forehead.
Think, Pari. Think!
No plans came, but her final conversation with Samarku Un-Sapphire came back to her. The ex-High Lord had been a prisoner of the Corpseman until Nidra had set him free. His words rang fresh in her ears.
‘It wants to know how I think, Lady Pari … It is learning from me, learning our ways, but for what purpose, I do not know.’
She looked across to the other High Lords who had been present: Jet, Opal, and Peridot. Each of them had met the same fate. Not quite dead but certainly not alive either.
It’s stopping them from coming back. How long would it take before we’d have realized? How many years? How many failed rebirths? More than enough for whatever the Corpseman is planning.
It had hit them in a place they felt safe, used their own ways against them. Pari spun back towards Priyamvada and lifted one of her Sky-legs. She’d often imagined doing something like this to her High Lord, but in the fantasy it had been pleasurable. Now, in reality, she felt only sickness and grief. At least this way Priyamvada will return one day. She brought the Sky-leg down on her High Lord’s neck.
The crack of bone rang out, cutting through the other noises with remarkable clarity. As one, the swarm stopped, some landing on the floor, others attaching themselves to the nearest wall. All of them were looking at her. Meanwhile, the Corpseman continued to coat High Lord Spinel in a layer of yellow discharge. Out of the corner of her eye she could see that he too had lost his r
obe and undersilks at some point in the proceedings.
‘Your turn,’ she murmured to Arkav.
He leapt across to where High Lord Opal had been left, and she was painfully aware of all the heads following the movement. As he closed the last few steps to the body, several of the swarm dropped from the ceiling to create a living, and to Pari’s mind, hostile, barrier.
It’s one thing to laugh at death when you know you’re coming back. It’s quite another when you’re facing being entombed in your own body for an undisclosed and possibly endless amount of time. Pari felt a sudden reluctance to fight the demons. All her instincts were telling her that if she sent another High Lord to their next lifecycle, the swarm would make her pay for it. And, at some point the Corpseman would finish its business with High Lord Spinel, and then she’d be in real trouble.
Still, the thought of leaving anyone trapped between lives was too much to bear. While Arkav held the swarm’s attention, she hopped forward, landing in a low crouch alongside High Lord Jet to build the energy in her Sky-legs while bringing her right hand down sharply on his windpipe. ‘Forgive me,’ she murmured, then kicked off again, towards House Jet’s door.
Her plan was to keep moving, keep the swarm confused, and then send as many High Lords as she could between lives. But as she glided forward, a larger, darker shape landed in her path: the Corpseman. It still carried High Lord Spinel from two of its arms. His skin now glistened in that odd way and the man’s eyes were closed now, halfway between sleep and death.
She had too much momentum to stop, so instead she pivoted in the air, drawing her knees to her chest, and used the Corpseman as a springboard from which to kick off. It made no move to stop her so she was able to sail backwards to the central platform, returning to her brother’s side.
‘Now what?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know.’
All seven of the exits were blocked. They were hideously outnumbered. In the absence of a strategy, Pari did what she always had when things were bleak: she bluffed.
‘Good afternoon,’ she said to the Corpseman. ‘I suspect you remember me. I certainly remember you.’