Alisiyad
Page 39
Russ carefully stepped upward. There was no railing, but he kept using the wall as a guide. About ten steps up he felt a wooden door in front of him, and groped for the handle. Finding it, he twisted the round metal knob, hearing an obliging click. He wondered if it had been locked, or not.
The door swung in, and he peered into the dimly lit room. There were no lights, but the subdued sunlight shone in through empty windows. The area before him was a mess. The stone walls were crumbling, and another doorway at the end of the room looked as if a wrecking ball had smashed against the right side. The door lay on the floor in two pieces. Broken shards of glass and chunks of the wall littered the floor, which was otherwise empty.
Russ walked in, crunching over the glass. He went over to one of the windows and looked out. He saw a weedy yard surrounded by the fence he’d seen in the alley, and the walls of more ruined buildings rising up on all sides. There was no sign of human life, as far as he could tell, and he was too low to see past the tall gray walls. He leaned over the ledge and craned his neck, peering up at the stories above his own. Maybe if he found his way to a room further up he could see over the rooftops to get a feeling of what the city looked like.
But why the hell do you want to do that? he asked himself. The idea was to get back to Liseli, not explore Azmanval. She was waiting for him, and would be mad as a wet hornet if he took forever to get back because he’d been dicking around in abandoned buildings looking for—
He heard a noise, and ducked back inside. At first he couldn’t identify what he’d heard, but as he listened and heard it again, he realized it was a door closing. Someone else was in the building, nearby, walking through rooms with doors . . . .
Russ held his breath. He heard voices, but couldn’t make out their words. They sounded like women, or children, and his curiosity got the better of him after a few moments. He crunched as quietly as he could over the glass, stepped around the broken door, and peeked around the side of the doorway. There was an empty hallway beyond, lined with doorways, some with cracked doors hanging crookedly from their hinges, and some without. It looked as if someone had rampaged through the whole floor, if not the whole building, smashing the walls and breaking the windows and doors.
He heard the voices again; they were coming from a room to his left. Maybe these people had some food . . . or could tell him a bit about the place. It was a risk, but hell, if he wanted to eat he’d have to take it.
Russ walked softly down the hall, listening intently at closed doors and looking into the open rooms that he passed. He finally found the room he was looking for. The door was shut, but he could hear the voices talking to each other inside. He couldn’t understand what they were saying; they must be speaking Adayzjian. That might be a problem. His stomach rumbled, and he swallowed drily, his mouth still tasting like vomit and Alisiya. Even if they didn’t have food to spare they must have water. Oh well . . . .
He knocked. The voices fell silent, and no one answered, not even to ask who was there.
“Hello?” he squeaked, then coughed and repeated it in a more normal voice. Still, no one answered. He didn’t even hear movement. “Can I come in? I’m . . . er . . . lost.”
Silence. He tried the doorknob, and it opened easily. He looked in, but saw no one. I’m not hearing voices!
“Um, hi?” He stepped inside, looking around. This room, unlike the others, had a relatively clean floor, and some battered furnishings. A dilapidated sofa sagged against the wall, and two chintzy looking wooden chairs sat at a small wooden table. The table had an unlit oil lamp in the middle, and was set with food. It looked like he’d interrupted someone’s lunch; a couple of potatoes sat on plates with a loaf of bread half sliced between them.
He looked around, but saw no one. There was another door, but it was closed. He thought about opening it for a moment, then thought that maybe it was better if he didn’t have to come face to face with anyone. Scaring them into hiding and stealing their lunch might be a shitty way to get a bite to eat, but . . . . He shrugged, and walked over to the table.
He wondered, briefly, where the bread knife had gone, but broke off the top half of the slice and shoved it in his mouth, barely pausing to chew before swallowing. The bread was dry, but taste wasn’t the issue; he was glad for anything.
The door to his left clicked open, and he looked up into the thin face of a young woman. Her black hair was wild and her clothes little more than haphazard layers of rags; her eyes, too large for her gaunt face, were looking at him with a strange mix of fear and outrage. He was just about to speak when she raised a bony hand and made a birdlike screech, leaping toward him.
Russ saw the short pointy dagger coming at him and tried to jump to the side. The girl barreled into him, swinging the knife wildly, missing his body but slicing a hole in his sleeve as the blade grazed his left arm. Russ stumbled and tried to grab her, but she was too fast, ducking away and spinning around to come at him again. She gave another sharp battle cry, and Russ wheeled backwards.
He backed into someone, who shoved him towards the girl. She slashed at his right arm and tackled him at the same time, knocking him to the ground with her unexpected strength. Pain ripped through his arm as her erratic knife raked across his biceps. He saw the other person as he fell, a younger girl with the same giant eyes, wild hair, and ragged clothes.
The older girl kneed him in the gut as she bore down on him with her bony weight, pinning him to the floor. Russ instinctively reached to clutch at his wound, but she knocked his arm down and loomed over him, like an angry crow, waving her dagger before his eyes. She yelled at him in a torrent of Adayzjian, the smaller girl’s face peering at him stonily over her shoulder.
“I don’t know what you’re saying!” he yelled, interrupting her flow of words. She stared at him with furrows deepening between her eyes, and he added, “I just wanted some food . . . .” He felt blood seeping into both sleeves, from the mirror slashes. The cut on his left arm wasn’t as deep, but it still screamed in pain. “Let me go and I’ll go . . . .”
She asked an angry question, but he just shook his head, shutting his eyes. He didn’t dare try kicking her away, with that knife in his face. It wasn’t the first time he’d been beaten up by a girl, he thought bitterly. She belted out something in disgust, and jumped up off of him. She barked out another word and gave him a kick in the side.
Russ struggled to his feet, holding his right arm and wincing. The she-demon pointed at the younger girl as she continued to chew him out; perhaps she was berating him for taking half a slice of dry bread from a baby’s mouth. “Fine, fine, I’m sorry,” he muttered, edging away. She pointed to the door with her knife and he stumbled toward it, cursing under his breath.
I’m tired. Been through a lot, he told himself as he left the room, glancing nervously over his shoulder to see if he was being followed. Slowed down by all that, s’all. You need rest, idiot. Rest. God you’re a pathetic wimp, Markson. Can’t even fight a couple of anorexic girls. Fuck it all . . . .
He looked at the blood seeping out between his fingers, then at the oozing cut on his left arm, and swore again. He couldn’t keep a straight path down the hallway, veering to the right and almost knocking into the wall before weaving left again. It was too damn dark to see. Which doorway had he come in through? Think, idiot, think! The one at the end of the hallway, duh. He found it, and found the doorway leading to the staircase, nearly slipping on a large piece of glass as he went. His vision blurred, his head was spinning. Need to slow down . . . need to rest . . . need to eat . . . drink . . . something . . . rest . . . .
He stopped at the top of the stairs and looked down at the opening to the alley below. His swayed dizzily and the stairs seemed to sway with him, narrowing and widening as if they were his gasping lungs. The bottom seemed to rush up to him and he leaned forward to meet it. But he came to his senses enough to grab out for the wall, then sink to his knees. There was no way in hell would be able to get down the stairs without t
umbling headfirst.
Russ sat back against the wall and closed his eyes, squeezing his arm together and breathing hard. Just rest, he told himself, just rest for a little while . . . .
Chapter 26 ~ The Ricallyn
Russ dreamed of food. He stood on a beach by Lake Michigan, surrounded by seagulls. People were tossing him bits of bread, and he tried to catch each bit as it floated toward him, or snatch it up from the pebbly sand, but the birds beat him away, cawing mercilessly. One touch from their batting wings sent him to the ground. He knew rather than felt that they were pecking his eyes out but he didn’t cover his face. There didn’t seem to be a reason. The screeches became louder and louder; they wouldn’t let him eat and they wouldn’t let him sleep . . . .
He came to slumped against a cold wall in the dark, and for a moment had no idea where he was. He could still hear the gulls from his dream, screeching. Wait. He shifted, pain ripping through his arms and soreness assaulting the rest of him. His head throbbed. He remembered where he was.
The girls, the skinny little vicious girls from inside the ruined building, were screaming. He hadn’t closed the door, but the sound would have reached him anyway. They could scream really loud . . . .
He heard a thud and one of the voices yelped before falling silent. The second voice, the smaller one, went on. He heard deep voices, then. Men. They barked, as if giving orders. He heard their footsteps thudding and crunching over broken glass, and he pushed himself up to his feet. Run!
He didn’t run. All he could do was freeze in the doorway. If he galumphed down the steps, wouldn’t they hear him? If he tried running down the stairs, wouldn’t he fall? He heard a slap and sounds of struggle; the smaller girl’s birdlike voice crying out angrily, but afraid. Then more gruff words from the men. A sharp rap, and silence.
They’re dead, he thought, feeling sick. He’d be dead too if he hung around. Oh shit. He turned, and leaning heavily against the wall, shuffled down the steps as quietly as he could. He wanted to close the door, but feared it would make too much noise. The back of his neck tingled, expecting some kind of thug to appear at the top of the stairs and see him at any moment. But he fought the urge to careen down the steps.
Maybe they’re alive. Maybe you should help them. He shook his head. If he couldn’t fight them, he couldn’t fend off their attackers. But . . . . But fuck, he silenced his conscience angrily. You’re half dead. Lotta good you can do yourself much less anybody else!
He reached the bottom and peered out into the alley. It was empty, but to his horror he could hear noises out in the street. He ducked back against the wall of the stairway, flattening himself into the shadows. If only I could see that damn Gate . . . .
Russ listened to the street noises. More voices, shouts, the clinking of . . . chains? No. It was just his feverish imagination, playing on fears. Just that.
He peered up the stairs, then down at his arms. The blood was drying on his clothes and his slashes had stopped oozing. They were really only light wounds. Really. Wimp.
He heard voices from above him. Snapping his head to the side, he saw a silhouetted figure obscuring the weak light at the top of the stairs. For one moment he thought the shadows might hide him, but then the man said something loudly and started down the steps.
Russ propelled himself out into the alleyway, stumbling as he forgot the slight ledge between doorframe and side street. He looked back and forth, holding his right arm. There were people out in the street, but would they care to stop him? He didn’t want to take the chance. That left the other end of the alley, the one closed off by a tall weedgrown fence. He’d just have to climb it.
Russ flung himself at the fence, grabbing vines and feeling fresh blood wet his right arm. The fence was made of vertical metal bars; when he tried to gain a foothold his feet just shot through to the other side. Leaves broke off in his hands as he slid from the vines, landing on the ground again. He stumbled back, catching his balance, and tried it again, this time ripping at the vines, trying to fit between the bars. He could slip his left arm and leg through, but the bars blocked his body. He winced as the cut on his left arm rubbed between the vines, and he started to draw back.
He heard the man behind him and looked, still stuck in the fence. The man advanced unhurriedly. He had Russ cornered and he knew it. He even smiled a little, mockingly, as he held up a long blade. It looked like a giant kitchen knife, and he lifted it threateningly, motioning to Russ with his free hand and barking out orders. Russ didn’t need to know Adayzjian to figure out the man wanted him to leave the fence and surrender.
“I’m stuck.” He tried to sound calm. He’d wedged his shoulder in as far as he could push it, and now it wasn’t going either way.
The man laughed shortly and placed the blade against Russ’s neck and right shoulder, reaching over to pull on his arm. The metal was cold and the edge pricked against his skin. Russ didn’t dare move. The man yanked his shoulder free of the fence, ripping his sleeve, then took the blade away and shoved his face up against the bars.
He heard the sound of the blade being resheathed, and thought about trying to struggle. But the man moved quickly, pushing him into the fence with a hand between his shoulders as he rattled something off his belt. He grabbed Russ’s right arm and pulled it around, clamping metal around his wrist. Russ jerked, grabbing a bar with his left hand and biting back a yelp as his right arm screamed in pain. The man twisted, shoving his shoulder into Russ’s back and yanking hard on the chain clamped to his wrist. The wound tore open and Russ felt dizzy again. His knees buckled and he knew the only thing holding him up was the fence and attacker. The man grabbed hold of his left arm and brought it around to clamp into the restraint, then he yanked him away from the fence.
He barked out orders, but backed them up with pushing and pulling Russ around to face the street. He held Russ’s wounded arm with one hand and slid his sword out with the other. He smacked Russ on the back with the flat of the blade, and shoved him down the alley toward the street.
“I’m going,” Russ muttered with his teeth clenched against the pain spreading through his arm and shoulder. If he ignored it, maybe it’d just start to feel numb . . . .
Out in the street Russ saw a crowd of people handcuffed like him. There were men, women, and children; all looked as skinny and tattered as the young girls. Russ stared around at everyone. Some sat up against the buildings and others stood in rows on the street, shackled with chains connecting them to each other. Men like the one who had captured him stood guarding the pathetic looking group.
The man steered him to the right, over in front of the building he’d been inside earlier. Russ saw the two girls out front, sitting on the ground. A man waved something in front of their faces that made them grimace and jerk their heads away. He seemed satisfied, drawing back and moving toward other lethargic looking prisoners.
Russ was presented to another man. He and Russ’s captor talked to each other for a moment, giving Russ appraising looks. Then the second man addressed Russ, asking him something. All Russ could say was, “I can’t understand you.”
He thought it would upset the man, but he just waved them aside. Russ’s captor took him over and pushed him down on the stone sidewalk in front of the building, next to the girls. They glanced at him only briefly. He saw contempt in both sets of eyes before they turned away and stared at the crowd in the street.
Another armed man came over to him. Or maybe it was one of the same . . . he couldn’t tell. They all looked identical to him; tall, lean, dark haired and dressed in practical black uniforms. When they spoke they barked out their words, and they didn’t hesitate to shove their captives to get them to move where they wanted. They were all the same.
He looked up at the one bending over him, and saw that he had a white cloth, and he began to wrap it around Russ’s arm. He spoke to him, not barking so much as speaking in clipped tones, but Russ just shook his head. “I don’t know your language,” he said, leaning his head aga
inst the wall. He didn’t like the hurried treatment of his arm; the man wound the bandage around too tightly. He closed his eyes and held his breath, wishing he could suck up the pain and not be such a pathetic wimp.
Suddenly a bitter odor filled his head; he opened his eyes, jerking to the side and coughing. The man nodded in satisfaction, drew away the stinking bottle he’d held under Russ’s nose, and left him. Russ looked down at his arm and was glad that at least he wasn’t oozing all over anymore. The older girl still looked out at the street, her chin in the air, but the younger one stared at him from owl-like eyes. When he caught her gaze she turned away again, mirroring her sister’s pose. Even if he could speak their language, he doubted that asking them what was going on would do much good.
You should try to get away. You have to get away. He shook his head. There were too many swordsmen in the street keeping an eye on him. And even if he could slip away, he could only go back to the dead-end alley with the Gate that wasn’t there. And then what? Get run down and caught again? There wasn’t anywhere to go. He wished he knew their plans for him. And why they were rounding up all these people; where they were going to take them. He wished he’d paid more attention to the stuff he’d heard about Adayzjia.
He sat and waited. Maybe somewhere down the road a better opportunity to escape would come up. Maybe there was somewhere he could hide long enough to regain strength for the Gate. Right now . . . he’d just have to wait.
He watched as more swordsmen emerged from the buildings up and down the street. They came leading ragged looking people or carrying their inert forms. They then revived them enough to sit upright and wait like Russ. The people in the road stood listlessly, many with their heads bowed. It was like the whole population of the ghost city was being rounded up by the swordsmen. It didn’t look so good, but at least no one was getting killed. Yet.
He looked around at the city. All the buildings were in ruin, stone faces crumbling and lying in the street, windows empty of glass or looking like mouths with crooked teeth. He saw no life except for the guards and prisoners.