by Davis Ashura
When Rukh had scouted out this trail a month ago, he had found that it eventually broadened out. They should be able to move more swiftly then. Hopefully, they'd come across that widening soon.
A little ways to the east, though, things were likely vastly different. There, on the broad plain beyond Ashoka's Outer Wall, platoons were even now racing north. Of course, those other units were Blended, and for those watching from the heights of the Outer Wall, this action—the swift movement of men—would have been invisible. What those watching would have witnessed would be very little. There would be few clues to indicate that anything was untoward on the plain beyond the Outer Wall. The sight of displaced grass and small puffs of dust might be the only signs proving the passage of the platoons.
It had to be deadly dull, at least Rukh remembered it as such. There was nothing to see or sense, and there would be nothing to see or sense for many more hours to come. The forward elements of the two armies had miles to go before they encountered one another. Of course, they eventually would, and when they did, battle would be joined. Then there would be something to see.
By convention, when two enemy platoons came in contact with one another, they dropped their Blends. The Kummas would fight with Constrainers and no use of Fireballs allowed, while the Murans and Rahails would fight without Blends. The only weapons the warriors would use during such conflicts would be the blades on their backs and the bows in their hands. It would be skill on skill alone, with little use of Jivatma to sway the contest. However, to prevent severe injury or death, the blades were obviously shokes, and the arrows covered by a heavy wad of cloth steeped in a red dye. A strike from one of them would leave an obvious mark and bruise, but they wouldn't kill. For further safety, hundreds of judges patrolled the field of battle, calling out the 'dead' and wounded while Shiyen physicians attended those injured in the mêlée.
“The trail widens out about a hundred yards ahead of us,” Corporal Chopil said, breaking Rukh's thoughts. “We should be able to make swifter progress then.”
“Thank Devesh,” Rukh said with feeling. “Pass the word along to the rest of the warriors. As soon as we're there, I want us picking up our pace. We don't want to miss out on all the fun.”
“Yes, sir.”
As soon as the trail opened up, there was almost an audible sigh of released tension from the platoon. They hadn't liked their slow progress any more than Rukh. Nevertheless, he was pleased to see them maintain discipline in spite of their relief. They remained alert and serious, but also loose and relaxed enough to grin at quiet complaints or bark hushed laughter at a jest. Rukh smiled when one of the Trims muttered irritated imprecations. A joke had likely been made at the expense of the annoyed warrior. It was how it was done. At least, it had been when Rukh had been a Trim.
Once more came that sense of vast age, similar to what he had experienced earlier in the morning. A long stretch of endless years reached back in time, and the sensation divided Rukh from the men in his command. It left him thinking of them as little more than children even though they were only a few years younger than he.
The weight of years pressed heavier, and ennui sucked at his soul. He was tired of the long life he had lived. He'd spent too many years in this world, sacrificed too much. It was time to pass on the burden of his duty to someone else.
Rukh started. Where were these thoughts coming from? He was barely into his twenties. He wasn't an old man with a lifetime of memories. His brow furrowed in puzzlement, but a tremor in the sky caused him to look west. There was nothing there, but he sensed something moving in the clouds. It was familiar. The laughter of a sweet girl . . .
He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He needed to focus on the task before him.
*Rukh!* A voice, muffled and barely heard, briefly resonated in his mind.
He frowned again. Had that really been a voice in his mind, or had it merely been his imagination?
*Rukh!*
There. It came again. From the south. Still softer than a whisper. He was still unsure what he was hearing, if anything.
*The Sorrow Bringer . . .*
Or maybe a shout from a great distance? Rukh slowed, frowning even more deeply as he concentrated on something he wasn't sure was real.
*Rukh! Run. The Sorrow Bringer is coming!*
Rukh's head snapped up, and he halted. Aia. She was west of him. He bent his head in concentration, listening for her words.
*Rukh! Run. The Sorrow Bringer is coming!*
Rukh's features went slack. This couldn't be happening. Not on a day when so many warriors were beyond the protection of Ashoka's Oasis. The warning repeated, and the blood drained from Rukh's face. It was happening. Devesh save them. He took a moment to master his rising tide of fear before turning to Chopil and signaling the corporal. The Blacks stumbled to a jumbled stop.
Rukh turned to the warriors. His thoughts raced as he planned out his next steps. He could hear Aia's thoughts from a maximum of a day's distance. Who knew how quickly the Queen could cover that same journey? An hour? Less. Whatever it was, it couldn't be much. The Blacks—and every other warrior beyond the Outer Wall—would have to drop all their equipment, conduct Jivatma without pause, and run to ruination. Only then might they be able to get through this alive.
“Listen up, warriors. Aia, my Kesarin, has just sent me a warning. The Queen is heading toward Ashoka.” Rukh spoke in a calm, steady tone. He didn't let his anxiety show. He didn't want the Trims panicking.
It worked. Perplexed murmurings met his words—fear as well—but there was no witless terror. Instead, the Trims appeared alert, ready, and willing. Rukh felt a surge of pride for them.
“This Advent Trial is over,” Rukh continued. “Kummas, remove your Constrainers. Everyone discard your weapons. Shokes, bows, and arrows, anything that might slow you down. We're heading back to the city at best speed.”
“But how will we defend ourselves against the Chimeras, sir?” a Rahail asked.
“Fireballs will work against them, but otherwise, the weapons we're carrying aren't meant to kill. They're useless,” Rukh explained. “And even if we were fully armed, nothing can slow down the Sorrow Bringer.” A clatter of weapons hitting the ground met his words. Rukh turned to Chopil. “Send up the emergency arrows.”
These were the signal flares, flaming green arrows carried by every platoon. They would relay the message to all the warriors on the plain that enemies were approaching. It would immediately end the Advent Trial. Every platoon would hustle back to the gate closest to them.
And, unfortunately, of all the units, the Blacks would have the hardest, longest run to make.
Rukh took another moment to map out his next decision. The warriors wouldn't like it. He turned to the Kummas. “I want all of you running flat out. Don't slow down for anyone. Get inside the Outer Wall as quickly as you can. That is your only mission.”
“But, sir, how will the Murans and Rahails keep up with us?” a Kumma asked.
“They won't,” Rukh replied. “But there's also nothing any of you can do for them by being out here. None of us can stop the Sorrow Bringer. And She can likely see through our Blends so you aren't going to be any safer hiding with us behind one of them. If we want to live, we have to run. No slowing down.”
“And what about you, sir?” asked Corporal Chopil.
Rukh's jaw briefly clenched. If Jessira were with him, she would have berated his decision even as she understood it. She was a warrior.
“I'm the commander. I'll stay with the Murans and Rahails.” He managed to quirk a smile. “Of course, until we break free of this fragging forest, none of us will be doing much running.”
From the bowels of a sewer seeps the heart of hate. It pollutes the purest water, dismaying love's longing for belonging. It is a poisonous slug, so salt it well.
~To Live Well by Fair Shire, AF 1842
“What do those red flares mean?” Jessira asked.
“It means the Advent Trial is o
ver,” Bree answered with a frown. “Did you see those green arrows from the forest a while back? They were warnings that enemies are approaching. The red arrows are acknowledgment of the warning, and the call for all the platoons to return at once to Ashoka.”
“Do we know what kind of enemies?” Jessira asked.
“No. Not yet,” Bree said. “All we know is that enemies have been sighted.”
The crowd around them shuffled about in unease. The prior lively nature of the jests and conversations had dimmed to muted whispers of worry and uncertainty.
Many minutes later, more green warning arrows fired, this time from the plain itself and sometime later, again from the forest, just in front of it.
Jessira cursed. Rukh was out there. Worrying about him was the last thing she needed, especially with the promise of violence hovering about the Shektans like a wispy fog. She wished it were her own misgivings, but Rector Bryce had also picked up on whatever was in the air. For Jessira, it felt like a bated breath before a battle, of the watchful silence before the storm, of hate and violence waiting to be unleashed. She had passed on her warning to the other women while Rector had done the same with the warriors guarding them.
Once more, Jessira wished that more of the Shektan women were armed. Right now, the only ones who bore blades were her, Sign, and Bree. Following the unmasking of Hal'El Wrestiva as the Withering Knife murderer, safety seemed to have returned to the streets of Ashoka. And since danger no longer lurked, it no longer seemed important to go armed in public. Jessira hoped the decision to forego their swords wouldn't be one that the Shektan women would come to rue.
Just as much, she hoped that her watchful wariness would prove to be unnecessary, that whatever she was sensing would prove illusory, a product of her imagination. She prayed such would be the case because the idea of drawing her sword on another person, hurting them, cutting them, or even killing them . . . she couldn't imagine anything so awful. Such a possibility had her sick at heart.
Bree appeared to share Jessira's misgivings or at least she appeared fearful of something. She circumspectly scanned the crowd with a look of queasy concern on her face. Her hand continually drifted to the hilt of her sword.
Jessira hoped the other woman would be fine. She wasn't a true warrior, but lately, she had worked hard to correct the deficiencies in her training and was actually fairly competent . . . or at least no longer a liability.
“I don't see anything,” Sign said as she stepped up to Jessira's side.
“Nor I,” Bree added.
“Just stay alert,” Jessira warned them.
“Are you sure about what you felt?” Satha asked, coming up alongside them as well. “The Advent Trial has already ended, and I see nothing amiss. Are you certain your feelings aren't directed outward? At whatever enemy might be approaching?”
“What I felt isn't out there,” Jessira said, gesturing to the plain beyond the Outer Wall. “What I felt is in here. It's all around us.”
Satha exhaled. “And no one else has seen or heard anything out of the ordinary?”
“No one,” Jessira confirmed. “But I'm sure of what I felt. I'm feeling it off and on right now. Something bad is about to happen.”
“She's right,” Rector said. “There is something wrong. The other warriors can feel it now, too.” He stared Satha in the eyes. “I think it would be best if we simply left.”
Satha glanced about at the crowd and made a moue of disgust. “I sense nothing,” she said after a moment of study. “And while I trust your judgment, this is the Advent Trial, and this is Ashoka. I can't imagine anything truly dangerous occurring to us here. Not with us guarded by ten Kumma warriors.” She hesitated. “But perhaps we should be prudent and do as you suggest. We'll start with the younger women first.”
Rector nodded. “We'll make sure they move out in small groups so as to not attract attention.” He paused as he was about to turn away. “It would be best if you return to stand amidst the rest of the women,” he advised.
Satha nodded agreement and drifted back to where the other women were clustered.
After she had done so, Jessira looked over the crowd once again, trying to find that ineffable source of suppressed violence. Her eyes narrowed. There had been a time when she had been sure the focus of what she was feeling stemmed from the middle-aged Muran who had occasionally flicked his gaze toward her and Rector. Currently, the man stood surrounded by a group of young men—Murans, Duriahs, and Rahails. They stood silent and stared raptly out toward the broad plain surrounding Ashoka. What held their gazes was unclear since there was nothing to see.
The warriors of the Advent Trial were still Blended and nothing could be seen of what was occurring down in the plain beyond the Outer Wall. With the red arrows recalling the platoons, they were all likely sprinting back to the city. Maybe that's what those silent men were looking for: the tell-tale signs of the return of the Advent Trial warriors.
Jessira tried to convince herself that such might be the case, but there was something not quite right about the men. They kept flicking glances at one another, but the bulk of their focus often drifted to the Muran. It was furtive and suspicious, unnoticeable if Jessira hadn't been looking. Some of them shifted about as though nervous, and her certainty that they might be a part of whatever was causing her such unease deepened. There was something about way they stood: the overly conscious casualness, the studiousness in their eyes, and the seriousness that didn't belong, even amidst the quiet worry radiating off the crowd since the firing of the red arrows.
“There,” she whispered to Rector.
“I see them,” Rector replied. He had already flicked his suspicious gaze in the direction of the suspicious-appearing men. After a moment, his brows furrowed in confusion. “There aren't enough of them to pose us any threat,” he said, sounding troubled rather than relieved. “There has to be something more to what we're feeling than just that handful of men.”
“Where are all the women?” Bree asked, having overheard their conversation.
“They're right there,” Sign said as though she was stating what should have been the most obvious fact possible. She gestured to the Shektan women who huddled together in a large grouping. The House warriors hovered protectively about their charges.
“No,” Bree corrected. “Where are the women in the crowd? There used to be a lot more of them, but now there's hardly any.”
Jessira suddenly cast her eyes about, looking in all directions. The blood drained from her face. Bree was right. There were hardly any women left in this section of the Outer Wall. It was almost entirely populated by men—men wearing long cloaks. They had the bearing of those who had once served as warriors, and those cloaks could be hiding swords and knives at their hips. There were a lot of them, maybe over fifty.
Jessira struggled to keep her breathing smooth and even, but her heart thudded. The nightmare she had hoped would be an unwonted fear looked like it was about to come true. “I think we're in trouble,” she whispered.
“I think you're right,” Rector agreed, looking grim-faced but determined. He muttered something under his breath.
“Now!” a voice shouted.
Jessira's gaze snapped in the direction of the cry. Of course it had to have been the middle-aged Muran. After that, there was no further time for thought. The cloaked men drew hidden swords and attacked. Screams filled the air.
Shur Rainfall didn't like the eyes of the Shektans upon him. They made him uncomfortable. It was as though a curse were being placed upon his name and that of his family. He especially didn't like it when the filthy ghrina woman stared at him. Jessira Shektan. Her gaze was as soiled as a pus-filled wound. He felt the need to bathe every time she looked his way. As she was doing right now.
He barely restrained a snarl. Even now, it rankled him that an abomination like her had been welcomed so openly into the family of a ruling 'El. What degeneracy could have allowed such evil to gain entrance into the heart of one of Ashoka's
great Houses? Or blinded the vision of one of the city's great heroes to the corruption that was in the ghrina's blood. How could Rukh Shektan, slayer of so many Chimeras, have married this woman? It was proof, if any more had been needed, that House Shektan was utterly degenerate and their entire lineage Tainted.
As the ghrina's eyes passed over him once again, the Muran forced himself to turn away and not stare. Instead, he laughed, feigning frivolity even though his blood boiled. Soon enough—today, First Father willing—Jessira Shektan, the ghrinas, and all the Tainted Shektans would pay for their grave sins against nature and Devesh.
“They're looking our way again,” one of the Duriahs whispered to him in warning. The man was nervous, and his skin glistened with a sheen of sweat.
“We only need wait a little longer,” Shur whispered, wearing a false, toothy grin upon his face. “Our women have almost entirely departed, and the entirety of our warriors will be here soon enough.”
“We may not have the time to gather all of our warriors together,” the Duriah replied. “They seem to suspect something of us.”
Shur bit back his irritation. The Duriah was one of the most devout members of the Virtuous, but also one of the smartest.
“Look at Rector Bryce. He keeps glancing our way,” the Duriah noted.
Shur glanced at the City Watchman, the warrior in charge of guarding the Shektan women. The man's eyes were indeed suspicious as he seemed to study the Virtuous. So far, though, his eyes hadn't lingered overlong on Shur and his men. As long as that remained the case, then their attack could still go forward as planned.
“What do you think they're talking about now?” the Rahail asked, stepping forward and interrupting their conversation. He briefly gestured toward Jessira who stood with her cousin—another ghrina—and Bree Shektan. Approaching them was Satha Shektan, matriarch of the House. “Do you think they're talking about us?”