by S.
“All of it was your fault,” Kaitar hissed, coiling back for another strike.
An intense sadness stabbed Mi’et, far worse than the yatreg. Perhaps this fight was always meant to be, and circumstance had delayed the inevitable until that moment. Then, the melancholy died and he went blank inside, focused on one truth; if he did not stop Kaitar, he would go down the dune to die with his mule, and never reach the Xi’jahata.
I have no bones to offer but my own.
Blood spilled from the gash on his belly, soaking his fatigues all the way to the knee. Something burned deep in his guts, but it did not seem to matter. He swung the blunt side of the miet toward the Shyiine’s chest. Kaitar darted away and then struck again, yatreg whirling. Mi’et pivoted, narrowly avoiding a slash to his throat. He deflected another blow with armored hooked weapon, staggering as the second dagger flicked across his chest. The wool yalei parted to show a red flower against his skin. Before he could recover, Kaitar pressed the attack, ducking under a blow that would have knocked him out cold.
He’s too fast.
Sweat ran down Mi’et’s brow and into his eyes. He caught a slash on his scarred shoulder, pulled the arm back with a jerk, and lashed out. This time, the weapon smashed against Kaitar’s left elbow, and the resounding impact made his teeth rattle. Kaitar grunted as one of the curved daggers slipped from his twitching fingers. Before Mi’et could bring the blunt end of the hook down on the unprotected back, the scout’s foot caught him in the knee, making a spasm of pain rocket through the joint and up his thigh. Kaitar rolled, snatched up the dropped blade, sprang to his feet, and danced back. Baring his teeth, he circled, left arm held stiffly where the elbow was dislocated.
“You’re still quick,” Mi’et panted as he flexed his aching knee. He smiled, and it hurt as though a knife had cut the expression into his face.
“And you’re a black-hearted son of a bitch. You could have held onto her reins.”
“They broke.”
Crimson droplets spattered the sand at Kaitar’s bare feet. “No. You wanted to get back at me because of what happened to Ma—”
“Don’t say her name!”
“MARIYAH! The sister you let die!””
“Liar! You act soft-hearted, but you are nothing but a threk.”
There was no Sand Belt now. Nothing existed but the two of them, facing one another in the pit, surrounded by the jeering ghosts of dead Sulari princes. Mi’et saw fat, sly Madev there, laughing silently at the spectacle. Beside him sat Gah’leen, haughty and regal as he mouthed some mute poem about the eternal dance between the scorpion and the snake.
“Lines in the sand
Slithers the serpent, coiled in wait
Above, Sun watches, intent
The scorpion gleams, burned black
And strikes
Sun watches the dance, smiling
All love is death.”
He wanted to scream, wanted to wake both himself and Kaitar out of the nightmare they’d hammered out for one another—but the void swallowed the words just as it swallowed the pain.
Without warning, the Shyiine lunged, and Mi’et felt his right cheek laid open to the bone. He swung, catching only empty air; the other man was already out of reach.
“Slow,” Kaitar taunted. “You used to be faster, but you got lazy. I’m surprised you had the balls to make it from Gah’leen’s manse all the way to Dogton. I should have let the threk eat you.”
“I should have killed you when you came crawling into Dogton.”
A sardonic smile twitched across the scout’s lips. “You’re right. You should have smashed my fucking head in when you had a chance. Why didn’t you?”
Sadness filled him again, hotter this time, leaving him feeling weak. He lowered his weapon. “I—”
In a blur, Kaitar closed the gap. Instinctively, Mi’et hooked the air in a powerful swing. One yatreg drove between the Excerii meshing, wedging deeply into his forearm. He gritted his teeth against the agony and wrenched back. The blade came out red to the hilt. Mi’et pivoted to avoid another blow. As he moved in a desperate attempt to get out of the scout’s reach, the hooked miet punched deep into Kaitar’s ribs.
Inside his own head, Mi’et screamed.
Kaitar dropped both yatreg, his fingers scrabbling against the leather straps buckled to Mi’et’s forearm, sharp nails digging in so hard they left half-moon imprints. Blood leaked from between his lips. Wide-eyed bewilderment replaced all his ferocity. Then, he tore himself free, the hook ripping from his body and slinging blood and tissue. He hit the sand and lay still.
I killed him.
Mi’et raised his shaking arm and stared at the weapon. Blood dripped down the entire curved length, darkening his yalei. He could see nothing beyond that dripping, red hook, reflecting the burning sphere of the sun. Crimson splotches caught the rough fabric, bloomed against his own blood and formed intricate, meaningless patterns.
I’m sorry! I. . .
Another thick drop fell, lost in a sea of sand. Invisible.
Mi’et lowered the weapon. The wet sensation deep in his belly increased, making his insides slide out of the long gash, followed by agonizing heat. He grunted, pressed his maimed hand to the wound, and felt a ropey length of his own bowel against his palm. His brain kept firing off surges of nauseating horror, but his body could not react to it. No adrenaline pumped through his veins so he could take action; there was no action to take. He’d killed Kaitar Besh, his friend. The cracked glass had shattered under his hands. Cut him until he, too, would bleed out.
The weapon had no more use.
“You won, Mi’et,” Kaitar said so quietly the words barely registered at all. “You’re the Besh now.”
Mi’et raised his eyes and saw the Shyiine staggering down the slope toward Molly.
“Don’t. . . Kaitar!”
But it was already too late.
Nith’ath
Got me in a lung. Ripped into it. Done.
Kaitar’s knees trembled, but he kept moving. Each step brought a rush of foamy blood to the back of his throat, and his insides seemed made of water, drowning him in a hot tide. He dragged his bare feet through the sand until they would no longer move at all. Then, he let himself roll the rest of the way down the dune. The world streaked by as he tumbled—red, then blue, and red again. His head struck something hard, making sky and earth blur together. When his eyes re-focused, Kaitar found himself staring at leather flowers engraved along a well-worn pommel.
Molly.
He stroked her bloody neck with shaking fingers. Molly’s nostrils quivered, taking in his scent. She lifted her head and blinked her soft, glassy eyes, already forgiving him for the atrocity of her death. Sand puffed beneath her nose as she lowered her muzzle and took a ragged breath.
“Molly, old girl, stay with me.” Kaitar reached to touch her velvety chin, but his hand collided with a squirming, cold body. Ignoring the sharp jab of spines along his palm, he tore the Nith’ath from her; a bit of sorrel hide stuck between the larva’s clenching jaws. He flung the creature, not caring where it landed. The effort forced a deep, racking cough and left his body weak. When he tried to gasp for air, his heart pounded, and his vision blurred.
At the sound of his coughing, Molly moved, forelegs splayed to take her weight, head hanging. A half-dozen of the white, six-inch Nith’ath clung to her, chewing. She nudged Kaitar’s shoulder inquisitively, and his coughing quieted long enough for him to speak again.
“I’m sorry, Molly.”
She lipped his hair. For a heartbeat, Kaitar thought she might gather her strength and shake the larva off, stomp them beneath her hooves like an ornery snake, and—
A violent convulsion made Molly’s whole body go rigid. She fell, the violent tremor running the length of her legs so they beat against the ground in heavy, uncontrolled thumps. The velvety lips twitched against Kaitar’s fingertips, tickling, the mule’s warm breath coming out in short, uneven bursts. Somehow, he pulled
air into his ruined chest, wrapped his arms around the mule’s neck and pressed his cheek against hers, not caring if her thrashing broke his skull.
“Please. . . not this.”
As the trembling ceased, her ears went limp, hanging on either side of her head. Molly gave a long, low sigh, and did not move again.
“No. No. . . no.” Mindlessly, over and over, that single word as fire-hot tears bled down Kaitar’s cheeks. Hurt stretched over him, worse than any he’d ever felt in his life, filling him the same way blood filled his punctured lung. And he wished he could do something, anything, to hold his mistakes in his palms—thousands of them, all needle sharp—and scatter them to the wind.
It’s too late.
He buried his face in the mule’s stiff mane, his sobs mingling with bloody froth. He was too weary to swallow either down. Soon, he wouldn’t have to think about it; there would be no getting up again for him, either.
“Don’t move!”
Mi’et’s voice. Meaningless. The half-breed staggered down the slope, holding his torn midsection, the darker patches of skin gone so pale he no longer seemed piebald at all.
Kaitar lowered his head again, stricken with a new wave of guilt. They would all be dead soon. It hadn’t been Mi’et’s fault, he knew that now. His friend had tried to save Molly, and had tried to save him, too, but the fight. . .
An icy spine pricked his feverish cheek. He lifted his eyes to see a Nith’ath larva slithering over Molly’s withers, leaving a long, crimson streak. Another wriggled near her head, excreting a glittering chunk of amber Kodrite. It raised up, snakelike, staring at him with reflectionless eyes. Kaitar gaped at it, horror driving out any notion of his wounds, the dead mule, and Mi’et—everything. The Nith’ath would eat all three of them. They’d be turned to Worm Glass and shit out onto the sand while the world went on as if they had never been part of it at all.
“Kaitar! Don’t move. . . keep still!”
A rumble shook the ground.
Too late.
The earth opened in a wide yawn. Molly’s dead weight smashed into Kaitar, pushing a muted cry of pain from his lips. Nith’ath larva bumped against his chin as the sand slid from under him, vanishing into the maw below. He grabbed at the mule’s bridle, pulling against it, knuckles white. Agony roared through his muscles while the shriek playing on his tongue became reality. All the strength leaked from his arms and he fell. The sky spun faster, spiraling, falling upward instead of down, becoming a pinprick of light against a shining darkness where Nith’ath larva and mule hooves twirled in space, cut by the lines of his own long hair.
The ground shattered beneath him. Something inside cracked, too, ramming numbness through the nerves, along his spine, and coursing into his neck. Then, there was a sudden, nauseating wave of disconnect. His lungs heaved, one flooded with blood, the other rasping in desperate spasms against an erratic heartbeat. In the circle of light above, Mi’et’s face appeared in silhouette against the bright sky. It began to fade rapidly to gray nothingness.
I’m dying.
That thought hummed into a sparse, pitiful regret, throbbing hot at the edge of the gathering mist. Kaitar wondered where his arms and legs had gone. His lungs hitched again, trying in vain to learn to breathe blood instead of air. The world shone amber, and Nith’ath larva swam behind the thick Worm Glass. Uncomprehending, Kaitar stared at them, the hot tickle in his mind flickering up a notch. In the darkness a single light began to pulse.
Did I roll into the fire? Can’t see the camp. Mi’et, you there? Molly?
Sand showered his head and body with a soft, shhh-hhh lullaby. A shadow rippled across the Worm Glass nest. Heavy thumps followed, breaking the amber-streaked ground. Kaitar tried to move his head, but even turning his eyes brought the heavy, gray fog drifting back, painting the world dark and dappled with odd patches of light. Forming a face.
“Here, look at me,” the fog said in Mi’et’s voice. It drew closer, pressing against his forehead. Shaking, crimson-streaked hands came to rest on either cheek.
I wish she would have lived for you.
The thought came through Kaitar’s lips in a sputter.
“Don’t try to speak. Just rest.” The half-breed’s left arm twisted at a strange angle where the hooked weapon had broken it in the fall. He grimaced, pulled the arm close, and cradled his midsection. A length of gut slid against his bloody fingers.
“Mariyah.” Kaitar said, forcing out breath that smelled of copper and salt. Blood. “I tried. . . but she wouldn’t eat. . .” His voice faltered.
Mi’et’s broad face twisted into mute grief. His shoulders heaved in a sob—only once, and in silence.
There you are Mi’et. There you are. Not a weapon after all. Fuck Gah’leen and Madev. The Sulari can never have us now.
Kaitar closed his eyes and waited to die, but the flickering lights pried his lids open, hammering a burning spike all the way into his brain. A sizzling fork of agony rode his neurons, splitting them, making him scream inside the confines of his own mind. Looming from the darkness, a pillar lifted the limp form of a dead mule and swallowed it down into brilliance. Then, the thing turned its white heat on them.
This is that lake of fire the Harpers sing about! Where all the beasts and bad things go. All the Enetics. . . turning to salt!
Three orbs pulsed in unerring rhythm. In the spaces between the flashes, blackness covered everything so completely, Kaitar wondered if he had died and gone to some hell. A sound like the scales of a thousand slithering snakes vibrated the air until he thought his eardrums would rupture. The white-hot agony took shape—bright, hanging above him with gaping jaws and rows of wet, long teeth.
A Nith’ath.
A drone reverberated along the pathways of Kaitar’s mind, roaring through the bowels of the desert. Cutting like a yatreg. Opening the world to spill countless twisted, black cables—
. . . roots. . .
—from between the cracked edges of glass. Pale, mirror-like chitin swirled closer, turning black, and then white again in an ethereal prism. The Nith’ath’s girth filled the dark cavern, her spines scraping the glass in a high, distorted warble. Electricity rippled through the Worm Glass, golden and green where it collided. Kaitar’s hair drifted upward, each coiled length catching the sparks, reaching for the great serpentine creature.
“Don’t run. Don’t. . . run.” The Nith’ath spoke without speaking at all, the voice sounded like a woman’s. “Look at me, and do not run.”
Strings of data weaved through his consciousness, intricate, the fathomless code. Life. Evolution. Death. A living, breathing entity, which was not of nature but had become nature, taken animals and people and planted in them the seeds of change, letting it Bloom.
Toros.
The burning hell smoothed into a flowing line, hot as the molten rivers beneath the crust of the world. He had the strangest sensation he’d dreamed it all before. Hadn’t he? Yes, he knew what lie beneath that scarred landscape—himself. It was himself singing. The desert pulsed in time with his heartbeat, every nerve attuned to the Song. The Nith’ath’s three eyes pulsed, too, and her huge head swayed with the flexing of hinged jaws.
Mi’et screamed and Kaitar heard the scream in the marrow of his bones. The Nith’ath moved lower, one of her long spines jabbing his shoulder painlessly. Blood welled up, soaking his duster, flowing down the smooth leather to pool against the glass. A pins and needles sensation struck his body, so intense every muscle knotted tight. He arched, thumped back to the ground, and lay trembling as his lungs sucked in air with deep, ravenous gulps.
She knows us. Don’t run, Mi’et.
Mi’et stared at him, hazel eyes transfixed in a look somewhere between horror and wonder; Kaitar saw himself reflected in his pupils, pale and bloody, his own eyes blazing like twin suns. His arm moved, and no blood came to his lips as he rolled to his side; only an ache remained where a ragged hole had marred his chest moments before. But his mind did hurt. Burnt down to cind
er and glass. Slowly and silently, his hair drifted down to lie across his torso in a ropey plume.
The Nith’ath’s ninety-foot length slithering down the Worm Glass burrow with a raspy squeal that echoed in her wake. The monstrous outline grew faint before vanishing, taking the light and the Song with it, while the static darting overhead quieted to an occasional lick of brightness.
For a time, Kaitar knew nothing at all except the cool, soothing darkness and the sound of his heartbeat. Then, Mi’et’s breathing became part of the rhythm, and the half-breed squeezed his fingers hard enough to bruise. Kaitar winced, his shocked nerves receiving the pain with a raw, keen jolt.
“You feel it, then?”
His voice cracked. “Hurts. Yes, I feel it.”
“It means you’re alive.”
“Yes.”
A hush settled through the burrow. Kaitar concentrated on breathing, feeling sleepy and alert by turns. He became aware he was staring at a break in the nest, thirty feet above. There, the sun blazed in noonday heat and sand trickled in, sprinkling them in miniscule, shimmering gems. Was it the same day? Had weeks passed? Years? When he searched his mind for some way to mark the passing of time, he found nothing except the endless hum of the world.
It no longer frightened him.
The Prince and the Threk
Three Estarian men wearing Union-blue jackets came to take Erid to his grandmother. Holt, the Junker who had answered their Veraleid call, held Aerby by the collar to keep the dog from wandering off. The mutt looked none too pleased with the restraint and kept wiggling in an effort to break free.
None of the Junkers so much as glanced at Aizr-hin sitting on a hard bench against the wall, his hands resting on his knees. He pretended not to notice them, either, and kept his attention on the boy. “This is goodbye then, Erid?”
Erid nodded. “They’re taking me to Grandma. She’s probably worried.”