Hand of the King's Evil - Outremer 04

by Chaz Brenchley

  It had been smoke before, he'd never seen them bleed anything but smoke and decay had followed, disintegration. This one had come from the river, true - but they'd done that before, he'd seen them erupt from the Dead Waters like a plague of crabs. And those that had eaten rock in the siq, they hadn't bled rock or rock-dust when they died, only that same black smoke, so how was this one holding so much water in its gut?

  No matter how. No matter how it sealed the wound either, how the gush slowed to a trickle, to a halt. What did matter was that head, those eyes that pinned him with their hot stare, the long and flexible body twisting back on itself to bring the head down atop him. Mouthless, featureless but for the eyes it would crush, batter, pulp him into this wet earth and leave nothing worth saving, nothing worth the journey back into the Sands.

  But he stood as best he could in the low stirrups and yelled, whirled his scimitar, pointed it at the thing's dull snout. If he could only hold firm as the 'ifrit drove down, it would impale itself before ever it reached him. He had no illusions, that would help him not at all, the vast weight of the thing would still fall entire on his head; but if the 'ifrit had any seat of reason, it should be there between its eyes, and his blade might find it out.. .

  If the 'ifrit had any physical seat of reason, it shouldn't be able to exist in its own country as a twist of darkness, less palpable even than smoke. In this world, though, it had to form itself a body. Perhaps it had to form itself a mind also. He didn't know, and he thought he never would. He thought he would be dead in moments; he thought it was probably a dream that said perhaps the 'ifrit would be dead also, or hurt enough to die.

  He had time for so much thought, and more yet. Puzzled, he stared up at the 'ifrit where it bulked huge in the sky above him: huge but not expanding, not filling his sight, not falling. Huge but growing smaller, receding, drawing back...

  He must have been right, then, there would be deadly damage done if it skewered itself on his scimitar in trying to reach him. It knew that, it saw that in some shadowed future path, and so it turned away, and so once more Jemel did not die when he was ready to.

  But it had done the same with Marron, pulling back from his raised sword; and that was only Dard, a weapon of fine work and lethal edge but it might as well have been a muddy stick, raised against an 'ifrit...

  No matter. Jemel was alive, and that mattered; Marron was alive, and that mattered more.

  And Marron was standing guard above a fallen Ransomer, and there were half a dozen mounted men riding towards him now and going to reach him before Jemel could get there; and they were all Ransomers, and that mattered most of all just now, because Jemel couldn't imagine what he would say to them, except that it was likely to be something stupid, dangerous, disastrous. His name, perhaps, and his history... ?

  If he had the time to do it. The 'ifrit hadn't gone away; it still loomed above the gathering men, the weight of its body imprinting grass and ground between the road and the river, breaking the bank where it trailed down into the water. And even if it were shy of Jemel's blade and shy of Marron's too, it had shown no such shyness with regard to the Ransomers. A body of men riding in under its shadow now, they must surely attract more than its attention.

  Marron and their own man were both boosted up onto others' horses. The Ransomer cried out as they lifted him, sharp enough for Jemel to hear it above the muted thunder of his own mount's hooves and the gusty wind of its breathing; he couldn't be too badly broken, then, if he could hurt so much and still have air to scream it.

  Riding behind a black-clad brother, Marron kept his sword aloft. Jemel wondered briefly if any of the Ransomers would recognise the blade, but that was a small concern if it could keep the 'ifrit at bay, by whatever miracle the boy had manufactured now.

  It did that. Somehow Dard was giving the monster pause, holding it back from its strike. He was riding one-handed himself with his scimitar held high in the other, more a reminder than a real threat as his eyes moved constantly between the black above and the black ahead, the creature that could kill in a moment if his attention wandered and the group of men on horseback who were bearing his friend away.

  They cantered beyond reach of the 'ifrit, beyond its furthest conceivable stretch, and drew rein on the road. They stood their horses so close together, Jemel could not see Marron among them now that Dard was no longer waving above their heads like a banner, like a needle of light to stitch the eye. He didn't know whether his friend still sat another man's horse, whether he'd slid gratefully to ground the first chance he'd been given, whether he was crouched above the wounded man to offer what small help he could or whether he was lying hurt or dead himself already, victim to a swift and cruel justice.

  All he did know was that there was a body of men, a wall of men between himself and Marron: men he'd been fighting with only minutes previously, brothers to men that he'd killed in their full view. And he was Sharai, and he was in Surayon. They ought, he thought, to be merciless.

  He pulled gently on the rein, easing the lathered, exhausted horse down through its paces to a steady walk; at a safe distance from the 'ifrit he wiped his scimitar on the saddle-cloth and sheathed it at his side. Sitting straight in the saddle, proud and calm, he rode towards whatever doom they held for him.

  Weapons drawn but not raised against him, simply held in hand, and that was nothing but good sense at such a time; he'd have kept his drawn if his position had been less vulnerable or his confidence greater. Faces watchful, wary but not he hoped judgemental, not condemning, in so far as he could read Patric faces, which was not so far at all. First a silence, and then a voice:

  'Sieur Parrish, Fra' Colcan, brothers, this is Jemel of the Sharai, and you have seen what a warrior he is, and what a foe even to that devil...'

  And that was Marron's voice, and the relief in hearing it might have had him tearful in a moment, if so many hard-eyed men had not been watching him. He tried to peer through the shifting hedge of their bodies to spy his friend, but was distracted by another voice, bitter and resentful.

  A fine warrior, aye - he killed Sim, and Breck too if those were his arrows come from the bridge ...'

  'Leave be, for now.' The officer, the knight came shouldering through his men, his authority as heavy, as forceful as his destrier. 'We killed our share.'

  'Not of his people. And what's he doing, fighting with the heretics? He'll not be alone, make no doubt of that. If we take him back and put him to the question—'

  'Leave be, I said! You, Jacquel - I'll have silence from you, or we'll all hear you after service tomorrow night. Unless you'd rather follow the Sharai, and ride alone against that - thing?'

  'I'll do that, Sieur,' sullen but determined, from a broad, scarred man in his middle years who pushed his hood back suddenly to show Jemel his face, and his contemptuous scowl. 'I'm not afraid ...'

  'Then you should be,' Jemel said softly. 'Has Ma— my friend not told you what that is?'

  An 'ifrit, he said. And so? Demons die before the true faith, as heretics die in the God's fire and unbelievers at the sword's edge.' He hefted his own sword significantly, Jemel moved not a muscle, answering the challenge only with his stillness. 'I say I'm as fit to face it down as any hell-damned Sharai boy - that's if the devil-dealing boy didn't summon the thing himself. Would you trust him, sieur? Or this dog of his, this cur who came to-feed on our wounded?'

  Now Jemel's hand did move, despite all resolution; it gripped his weapon's hilt and would have drawn it, but that the knight forestalled him with a gesture, patience, leave my men tome...

  'Who came to stand over our wounded, Jacquel, and protect him from the 'ifrit. See the world as it is, man; there is honour even here, however tainted. Yes, I will trust these men, both of them, though I think you might be wrong about who dogs whom between them. It would honour you to do as the Sharai has done, it would honour any man. I will not order you to it, but—'

  'You should forbid it, rather,' Jemel interrupted. 'Not you nor any man can r
ide against that and live.'

  'What, only you, Sharai?'

  'Yes, though I intend no insult by it.'

  'What else is this, but insult? Our horses are as fast or faster; that's Sim's stolen mount beneath you now. Your horsemanship is superior, perhaps, but not by much, and our beasts know and trust us. Our arms are as strong as yours, boy—'

  'Stronger,' Jacquel growled, 'he's a mocking puppy, nothing more.'

  'Stronger, sure,' Jemel admitted, 'and yet the 'ifrit would kill you, where it holds off from me who hurt it once and from my companion, who has not hurt it at all. The virtue lies in our weapons, and those we cannot share with you.'

  'Our swords are as sharp as yours, and better made.'

  'Doubtless so, and yet they will not bite that hide. No normal edge, no point will mark it unless the weapon's been blessed by an imam. Mine is, yours are not and cannot be. You saw how it scorned your own man's weapon,' with just a flick of his eyes to find that man, laid on the grass now, pale and unmoving, 'and you saw how it feared my blade, how it withdrew. It’s too big, though, a scimitar alone can't hope to slay it. . .'

  'Nor scimitar and sword together,' Marron said suddenly, pushing through the mass of men with some excitement. 'But, Jemel, you saw how it held back from me, and Dard has never been touched by one of your imams. I said a prayer over it myself, just now, as I was standing there; and the 'ifrit had been coming for me, and it stopped at that moment, as I blessed the blade

  Jemel shook his head, bewildered. 'You are no priest. Not even of your own religion.'

  'No — but I was a brother once, of this Order of Ransom,' said proudly, defiantly, staring about. Doom, Jemel thought grimly, seeing how the faces changed. 'We are all - I mean, I was consecrated to the service of the God, as all the brothers are. That's as good as being a priest; we can lead the services at need, say a prayer over the dying on a battlefield to haste them into heaven - and bless a weapon too.'

  The men were muttering; Jemel heard 'heresy, and thought that a congregation of imams would say the same.

  'How did you know the blessing would hold?' A man might trust to such a thing and find too late that it was no more than empty words, spoken over unheeding steel.

  ‘I didn't, but the 'ifrit thought it would. If I was wrong, we both were.'

  Could an 'ifrit be wrong, about such a matter? Jemel wasn't sure. They could be deceived by someone sly enough to work the trick, Lisan had done that in Julianne's cell; but Marron was so afflicted with honesty, he couldn't deceive the most gullible of innocents. Surely the only sense here was that this 'ifrit had heard him bless his blade, had felt the edge of that against its future and so backed away. In which case...

  'You say any brother of the Order can act as priest?'

  'If I can, then surely any. I was cast out, I must have been anathematised after I left the Roq, and I no longer follow the teachings of the priests - and yet the virtue holds. I think the virtue holds

  Jemel turned to the knight again. 'You heard. He speaks as true as he knows; if he's right, it may not be any of us who dies this day. Say a prayer over your weapons, bless each separate blade, dedicate it to your own God's good and maybe, maybe we can fight that creature, if we fight it all together.'

  The knight smiled thinly, and shook his head.

  'Not me, lad. I'm no brother, sworn to the Order and the God. We knights take different vows, and mean them less, sometimes. Fra' Colcan!'

  'Sieur?'

  'You are the men's confessor; that is as good as a priest. Come, bless my blade, then all the rest.' Then, as the other man hesitated, 'Where's the harm? A Sharai's idea, true, from a recusant's suggestion; but no matter for that, it would still be a prayer to the God. If it means no more, there is still no hurt in it. We can flee that demon, or we can fight it; and I for one do not mean to flee, so long as we have any hope of fighting. Nor do I mean to see any man under my command ahead of me. I have heard stories all my life about the invulnerability of spirits; I have also heard that the God can conquer all. You have given your life to that belief. What holds you now, if you are true to your own calling?'

  'Sieur, I don't know what to say.'

  'You heard the preceptor bless us all, before we rode. You have heard prayers and blessings every day of your life, man, and repeated them to the priest. Is it so hard to find a few words now, when you need them more? Here is my sword; come, put the Gods light into its steel, to set against the blackness of that soulless thing. Or would you see a Sharai boy better armed for the fight, and the only one still living when it's done?'

  'No, sieur ...'

  The older man laid an ungloved hand on his officer's blade, ran the dp of his tongue across his lips and began to whisper.

  'Louder, Fra' Colcan. I want all the men to hear it, to know that the God rides with them and their steel cannot fail.'

  Men could still fail, where steel was strongest. Jemel said nothing, though. Nor did he listen, as the Ransomer's voice rose in a strong petition to his God. He was wondering what 'recusant' might mean, and how to extricate Marron and himself from among these men when - if ever — the 'ifrit was killed or driven off, now that the bridge was down and they were all trapped together on this side of the river.

  First, though, there was the 'ifrit to face, and no certainty as to how that would fall out. There could be no certainty in the world any more, he thought, where a Sharai who hated Ransomers could ride with Ransomers in Patric country against a spirit that threatened nothing that was Sharai.

  Only a bridge, he thought, it only came to kill a bridge — except that Marron had been on the bridge, and perhaps it had come to kill him? If so it had failed twice already, once on the bridge and once on the bank, when it had seemed almost to use the injured Ransomer as a lure. Even without his blood-companion, Marron was proving extremely hard to kill; Jemel intended to keep him so.

  'Look,' one of the Ransomers muttered, pointing back past Jemel's shoulder. 'It's coming out of the water.'

  The 'ifrit looked more than ever like a giant worm, creeping up out of the river and shimmering darkly in the sunlight as it dragged itself across the grass. It was vast, massive like a living wall, flexing like a whip; slow, though, slow to move under all that rippling weight of water. Swift to strike, they'd all seen that, but not made for progress on dry ground. A man on foot could outrace it, if he were not rigid with fear; on their horses they could ride in circles and torment it like hunting dogs around a bull antelope. If their weapons were potent after a Patric blessing, if their horses would obey...

  'Excellent,' he said. 'It made itself for the water; it's too stupid to know how weak it is on land.'

  He drew his scimitar to show these Patrics once more how speed and skill and determination could override both the brute strength of the 'ifrit and the terror of the horse, at least in the hands of a Sharai. The Ransomer knight was ahead of him, though, snatching a newly blessed lance, tucking it firmly beneath his arm and urging his horse into motion.

  Draw its attention one way, strike from another, strike and run, wheel back and strike again - a Sharai party wouldn't need to be told. He hoped the same was true of these men; if they didn't know already, it was too late now to teach them how to fight desert-style. And this was a desert spirit despite its watery body, made for desert men to kill.

  He cried out and kicked his horse forward without a backward glance, permitting himself just the slightest huff of relief when he heard voices raised, the pursuit of hooves at his back

  They rode to the other flank of the 'ifrit, yelling and waving their weapons. Once they had closed almost to within its striking distance, though, their captain called out to them, a few words that brought them swiftly into battle order. If three or four attacked at once, the 'ifrit could not kill them all, and they would see then what kind of damage they might do. Always remembering that Jemel had slashed the black hide open once already, only to see it repair itself...

  The 'ifrit moved, snake-swift suddenly whe
re it had been worm-slow before. Its head struck out towards the knight, while its body coiled for strength and balance. Before blunt black vastness could reach slender steel-tipped lance, though, the creature reversed itself shockingly, making a brutal lash of itself as it had before, whipping around like a flail aimed at the small group of horsemen opposite.

  They lifted steel against it, all they could do, flimsy pinprick weapons against unconquerable bulk; and just before it reached them, the 'ifrit reared, snatching its head into the air so that it skimmed just above their points' reach.

  It does, it fears those weapons now . .. Jemel yelled exultantly, to encourage the same understanding in the Ransomers; then he kicked hard, to urge his reluctant horse in closer.

  The Ransomer knight was charging in earnest now, sods flying from his destrier's hooves as man and horse thundered towards the knotted body of the beast, the lance before them like a thorn thrust towards a waterskin.

  The 'ifrit turned its head to watch the approach, seemed poised to strike down, ruthless and unanswerable - and then did not, tried rather to slither away. Too late: the knight drove his lance home with a cry, with all the strength of his arm backed by his horses weight and speed.

  Which was the moment that Jemel realised he'd been holding his breath, because it fled from him all at once in an explosive sigh as the lance's point sunk deep, half a shaft's depth into the great barrel thickness of the 'ifrit's body.

  Water spurted from the wound it made, such a forceful jet that it soaked the knight in a moment and all but knocked him from his saddle. The next moment, his horse finally succumbed to terror. It reared up screaming, forelegs threshing the air; half-fallen already, the Ransomer clung desperately to the arched neck, barely contriving to keep his seat, losing stirrups and reins in the process, surely losing any sight of what went on around him.

  That was the time for the 'ifrit to strike back, before the knight could recover and draw sword against it. Jemel caught his breath again, watching for the monstrous head to fall even as he lashed his own mount with the slack of his reins, trying to reach the man in time to save his life.