by Kate Elliott
“Tell Captain Falco,” he said to Adelheid, “to send this message. We meet their demand. Hurry! Of this act, speak to no person.”
“She will betray you!” Antonia croaked, her voice nothing more than a whisper, but he heard her. He flinched. “She holds power over you, knowing you murder me. This she will use when she finds a new man to support her.”
He grinned, the hateful creature. His breath stank of onions, sweetened by a touch of mint. “You are dead, old woman. What passes in the land of the living is out of your hands.”
But he was wrong. He was so wrong.
He turned half away from her, not paying attention to her as he listened and looked toward Adelheid at the door.
She was failing fast, but she found her voice.
“Ahala shin ah rish amurru galla ashir ah luhish.”
Her voice gurgled, and blood sputtered from her lips.
Her voice was almost without sound, too broken for him to hear, but the galla did not hear with ears of flesh.
“Let my blood draw forth the creature … out of the other world. Come out, galla, for I bind you with unbreakable fetters. This blood which you must taste… makes you mine to command. I adjure you, in the name of the holy angels whose hearts dwell in righteousness, come out, and do as I bid you.”
He thought her already dead. He twisted the blade free with a casual turn and released her, stepping away. Her body slid to the marble floor, a restful place but cold.
I adjure you. No words passed her lips, but the galla heard. Avenge me.
A shadow loomed over her. Adelheid screamed, and Alexandros swore furiously and scrambled away from the killing touch of its black form. In the far distance, a door slammed open and shouts and the clatter of footsteps fell away.
As the tendrils of that darkness snaked forward, she felt these limbs seize on her blood. She felt its suck, draining her life as it filled the emptiness within. It had neither personality nor substance as she understood them; not fish or fowl, not male or female, not thinking and yet neither was it a dumb beast. It desired to fill itself with her because it had no real existence in this world, which to it was nothing but agony. Its wordless, soundless howl of pain consumed her.
Its killing caress also sharpened her mind and her heart.
The desire for revenge is a mortal failing. She must do God’s work, here at the end. Adelheid is weak, but her child will rule after her; neither is a worthy target. Alexandros acts out of fear, because he is a treacherous Arethousan, corrupted by the false church and thereby willing to strike at the most holy skopos. The worst sort of criminal.
But he is still human.
Now that she has seen them, she knows that the abominations threaten God’s order more than any other. Anne was right, after all. They were banished from Earth once. God cannot want them here, because they are a perversion. It is the Ashioi who must be harmed. They must be stopped, before anything else.
Hugh has joined them, but even Hugh is no more than a parasite, like the galla, sucking away the power that resides in others. The leader in the “feathered cloak” has no name that she knows. But there is one who does. One she tried to harm before, who might yet possess griffin arrows.
She must try.
God’s work comes before all else, even before trifling thoughts of revenge. She herself is nothing compared to God’s glory and God’s justice.
“I adjure you.”
She reached deep into the gash that opened into the other world, a place of terrible winds and unrelenting darkness. More came, a dozen, a score, crowding, eager for the blood. Her own blood—the most righteous—was sweetest to them.
I adjure you. Kill the man. The one. Who is called.
Sanglant.
X
A WELL-LAID TRAP
1
THEY used an old ruse, but it worked. With rope loosely bound around her hands, Liath walked with the young Ashioi woman called Sharp Edge in front and the four guards—Dog, Spotted Leopard, Buzzard, and Falcon—behind.
Secha wove the gate; she and Eldest Uncle would remain behind. The other seven crossed through sparks and the bright blue light of the aetherical gateway to another place. As her feet found earth again and the blue aether surrounding them faded to air, Liath glanced immediately toward the sky, but a dawn haze hid the heavens.
“What’s this?” A dozen mask warriors approached. The perimeter was held by double ranks of bold soldiers.
“Two prisoners for Feather Cloak,” said Sharp Edge tartly. She sauntered past with a sly smile. Every male there watched her go, amazed by the sway of her hips and the ripple of braid falling in a line down her half-naked back to brush the low-slung band of her skirt. She had a shocking amount of skin exposed, but the Ashioi were not, on the whole, a modest people.
Liath followed, head bowed but eyes lifted, and Anna walked behind her, frightened enough that Liath heard her panting. When they came safely past the outer line of the guard and started down the path that led to the base of the hill, Liath raised her head to survey the landscape. A town, ringed with a stone wall, nestled where the higher foothills broke into a rolling plain. All seemed quiet, but the gates were closed and there was no traffic in and out. A wide road, no doubt paved in the time of the Dariyan Empire, cut northward into the hills toward distant peaks, most shrouded in cloud. North beyond the reaches of Karrone and Wayland lay Wendar and Varre, closer now. She breathed in, wondering if she could discern any least change in the air, some hint of northern spice. They had in one “stride” crossed a vast region of land, all of Dalmiaka and much of eastern Aosta. Except for highland trees, the landscape was brown and gold, little different than the sere countryside of Ashioi country. It smelled of dust more than anything.
The Ashioi walked in Aosta, a land their half-breed descendants had once ruled. The Ashioi army led by Feather Cloak had laid in a siege around Novomo. They did not have quite enough soldiers to encircle the town, and no doubt the paths leading northward remained poorly guarded. But they were here, and Blessing was with them.
The small company tramped down to the main road and turned toward the town. A sparse woodland covered the slopes of nearby hills. Vineyards and olive trees ringed the town, among them small hamlets and long fields striped by sprouting grain. No one moved in field or village.
Anna moaned. “They’ve burned all those houses.” She wept with fear. “Do you think they’ve killed everyone? They hate us.”
“Maybe so,” said Liath, “but ‘they’ do not all think alike, Anna. Some will help us. Some will wish to kill us. Do not despair. Consider Blessing, who will need your help.”
“She won’t come with us, my lady. She’s training to be a soldier.”
Sharp Edge, hearing their speech, dropped back to walk beside Liath. “Bright One, do you think your daughter will follow us? It’s said that Zuangua, who is a bold leader and a very handsome man, I might add, has taken her under his wing.”
“So I hear.”
“She may not want to leave him. Then it will all be for nothing, if Feather Cloak takes you and kills you. I do not want to lose you. Without you, I will never have a chance to learn properly. The Pale Sun Dog hoards his knowledge. He’ll never teach us everything he knows. He’ll never trust us.”
“It is a risk,” Liath admitted. “But if I allow my daughter to remain with your people, then she will always be at war with her father’s kin. She must not be allowed to be brought up by those who will always counsel war with humankind. If Secha were Feather Cloak, I might think differently.”
“It is hard to imagine there can be peace with the Impatient One sitting on the Eagle Seat and Zuangua the Handsome—her own uncle!—as her chief councillor and war leader among the masks,” admitted Sharp Edge. “But I am willing to try to get your daughter back. I will help you, and you will teach me. I don’t see how I can get what I want any other way!”
Liath chuckled, although her mood was grim. “In this way, we are alike.”
&nbs
p; “Hush now!” said Dog Mask, who with Falcon Mask led the way. “See, there are human guardsmen standing along the walls of the town. But our own camp does not stir. I see sentries, but no flights of warriors ready to strike.”
“There!” said Sharp Edge. “The war party is holding a convocation, there on that hill. Do you see their banners? Nay, stop here!”
They halted where the curve and height of the road gave them a good vantage. The camp spread across lower ground. Individual folk were easily visible among tents slung low along the earth. A procession led by Feather Cloak’s spinning gold wheel broke free of the assembly and marched toward the gate, halting just beyond bowshot of the walls.
“There is Blessing,” whispered Anna.
Liath scanned the folk in that procession. It was difficult for her to distinguish individuals at this distance, although Feather Cloak’s vivid costume was remarkable from any distance. With a jolt that made her shudder, she saw Hugh’s golden head. He was tallest, surrounded by a dozen tense mask warriors. He turned, staring back her way as if he knew she was there. A pair of masks broke away from his escort and trotted to Feather Cloak. They gave her a message, it seemed, and after a brief exchange they retreated at a run toward the main camp.
Where was Blessing? Belatedly, Liath saw a slender girl standing beside the proud warrior Zuangua. Yes, indeed, it would be difficult to drag Blessing from her place beside such an impressive uncle, there at the front of the lines. Blessing was old enough in body to be allowed conditional entry into the adult world, and young enough in mind to have no true understanding of its dangers and consequences.
“Above the gate!” said Dog Mask. “Look!”
Within Novomo, many people had gathered along the parapets and in the watchtowers set on either side of the gate, but there was no hostile movement, no shouting or cursing, only a sense of anticipation as they stared at the waiting Ashioi. A large sack was lifted onto the battlements. Wrapped in rope, it was lowered to the ground outside the gates. When the sack reached earth, the rope was released and tossed after it.
A trio of mask warriors dashed forward, grasped the sack, and hauled it back to the procession, whose ranks opened to receive it. Liath and the others could see nothing of what transpired, only that Hugh’s golden head disappeared as if he had dropped down to examine the contents of the sack.
After a bit he reappeared.
“What would the Pale Dogs be throwing out of the city,” asked Sharp Edge, “that Feather Cloak would be willing to receive?”
“It’s hard to imagine.”
The golden wheel, lifted by the standard-bearer, spun lazily as the procession split asunder, re-formed, and retired back toward camp. A conch shell blew a five-note pattern, repeated twice. At this signal, first a single tent, and then four, and then a score sagged and sank and were folded and rolled as the army began the business of lifting the siege.
“It’s a body,” said Sharp Edge, staring at the crumpled heap revealed on the ground by the retreat of the procession. They had abandoned the corpse. “The Pale Dogs gave a body to Feather Cloak. She must have gotten what she came for.”
“The body of the sorcerer who sent the galla,” said Liath softly. “Is there any person left who knows that secret?”
“You do not know how to call these creatures?”
“I do not. Perhaps Hugh of Austra knows.”
“It would be good to kill such a man,” remarked Sharp Edge. “I would do it myself.” She grinned.
Liath laughed, not meaning to. The young woman was close to her in age, stubborn, fixed, blunt, and an unrepentant tease, comfortable in making males uncomfortable. As their gazes met, she felt an intense feeling of kinship similar to that she felt for Sorgatani.
“What must we do?” asked Sharp Edge. “My people are leaving. Should we follow them back to our country?”
“No. I must journey north, and I mean to take my daughter with me.”
“What is your plan?”
“I’m not sure.”
“We’ll want shelter soon,” said Dog Mask, always alert, his dark gaze sweeping in all directions. “Look how those clouds are coming down from the north.”
“Storm clouds.” Liath noted how swiftly the front was moving in, and how black its face was, and how high the dark clouds had piled one upon the next over the hills.
“Too late,” said Sharp Edge. “A bundle of masks comes to intercept us.”
A score of masks, mostly birds and cats, charged her group at a full run, ready to cut her off if she tried to escape.
“Now what will you do?” Sharp Edge asked. The four mask warriors looked expectantly at her.
“I will negotiate. And hope they possess no poisoned arrows.”
They met beside the golden wheel, which spun in the brisk wind blowing down off the foothills. The clouds had not quite broken over the hills, but they would at any moment like a flood let loose. The air was charged; the hair on her arms tingled, and her eyes smarted.
There were many witnesses, but the only ones who mattered were Feather Cloak, Hugh, Zuangua, and Blessing. Her own attendants stood back ten paces, waiting for the signal they had agreed on.
“I did not send for you,” Feather Cloak said, eyes narrowed with displeasure. “How and why are you come?”
“She escaped,” said Hugh in a low voice.
“Impossible. No one can escape the Heart-of-the-World’s-Beginning. Who freed you?”
“I freed myself. Give me my daughter and safe passage, and I will tell you how I did it.”
“I won’t go,” said Blessing. “I don’t want to go. I’m training to be a warrior!”
“Hush!” said Zuangua.
She snapped her mouth shut.
Feather Cloak shrugged mockingly. “I cannot force the child to go with you. You have fallen into a trap of your own making, Bright One.” She glanced at Sharp Edge and the four mask warriors who accompanied Liath. “Those who aided you will be punished.”
“Liathano is mine,” said Hugh. “So you promised.”
“Mine to give you when I am ready,” retorted Feather Cloak, “and I am not ready.” She beckoned. Two-score mask warriors closed in to trap them within the ring made by their bodies. “Guard these.”
“This was not our agreement,” said Hugh in an even lower voice, almost a whisper. He had hidden his hands in the folds of his robe, and the cloth shifted and rippled over them.
“The sorcerer who raised the galla is dead.”
“So she is,” he agreed, glancing toward Novomo’s walls. Wind raced through the air and whipped his hair back. “She is no longer a threat.”
“You are right to say so,” said Feather Cloak. “I have been too cautious, too kind. No more. I will tolerate no more human sorcerers who can threaten me. Enough!” She raised both arms, tilted her palms to face the heavens. “Masks! Kill them!”
A shock passed through those mask warriors close enough to hear, like an intake of breath. Even Liath was too surprised to react immediately.
“Too late,” said Hugh into this pause. “My trap is already sprung.”
The storm front crashed down like waves breaking. The wind hit. Within the encampment, the gale uprooted stakes and sent the cloth of the shelters into a frenzy, blowing, curling, or torn loose to ripple away south. Thunder boomed, although Liath saw no flash of lightning. This was no natural storm.
“Get down!” she cried.
Her companions dropped flat.
She leaped toward Blessing. Lightning blinded her, striking so close that her skin seemed to rip off her body. She flew away from the strike, blasted sideways by its power, and smacked hard onto the earth. She blacked out.
Startled back into consciousness, her scalp buzzed.
Thunder roared. Without meaning to, she clapped her arms over her head, shut her eyes, and prayed. Even with her eyes shut, a second lightning strike flashed through her eyelids to leave streaks in her vision. The crack and boom that came after deafened he
r. When she wiped her running nose, she opened her eyes to see blood on her hand.
“Oh, God.” She pushed up to hands and knees and with a curse struggled to her feet because she had to find Blessing. She had no idea how long she had been unconscious.
The Ashioi camp had dissolved into chaos as mask warriors raced to capture tents and gear blown to pieces by the wind, as others staggered for help because they were injured. She blinked rapidly to clear her vision of the jagged streaks etched into her sight. Her gaze tracked aimlessly over hillside and distant wall and jumbled field until with an effort she focused on what lay immediately around her.
The golden wheel burned. Smoke poured heavenward. All around her, the ground was scorched. A dozen bodies—two score—more—sprawled on the ground. They were charred husks, twisted and gnarled in grotesque figures, so blackened that their clothing and even their features had been burned off. The stench made her retch.
“Bright One!” Sharp Edge called at her ear, her voice like a whisper although it seemed clear from the stretch of her lips and the tightening of her eyes that she was shouting.
A shadow approached out of the north. A cloudburst raced toward them across the open ground, hammering into the dirt.
The rain struck.
Her companions pressed up beside her and spoke words, but she could not hear them over the pounding rain and the echo of thunder in her ears. She pushed into the ranks of the stunned onlookers.
Amazingly, Zuangua had survived. He was kneeling. Rain streamed down his body. Leaning on a spear, he cradled his left hand against his chest. His fingers were curled into a claw; streaks of weeping skin scored that arm. His neck was red and raw.
Seeing her movement, he looked up. As calmly as if he were greeting a long-expected friend, he shouted in a strong voice that penetrated her deafness. “So it happened in ancient days, when the Horse witch called lightning and struck down her captors, the blood knives. I saw it happen that day, as it happened this day. Is this your work, Li’at’dano?”