So we make liars of ourselves, and by doing so, prove Xohabi a liar also.
It was a new thought, and one that brought him a pang of what felt like sudden fright. Was he losing his mind, that such heretical thoughts came to him so easily these days?
Outside, the Sacrifices were lined up at one end of the camp in martial rigor, along with Viyeki’s Builders and the rest of the company, as the prince-templar’s party made its way up to the hilltop beneath the deep blue of a clear night. All expression absent from his face except serene satisfaction—the only proper look for a high noble in the presence of the very highest noble family, the queen’s—Viyeki observed that the prince-templar was dressed in the full panoply of his sacred station, robed in white with yellow ornamentation, including a ceremonial hood that recalled the Gatherers’ hats from the long-lost Garden. His Serene Highness Pratiki wore his white hair long and unadorned. His skin was so pale it almost seemed to glow from within, like the wax of a burning candle, but the prince-templar’s eyes, though calm and almost sorrowful in appearance, watched everything carefully. He was of the queen’s Hamakha clan, but of much more recent generation than most of the queen’s most trusted servitors, only a little older than Viyeki himself. He had only met the prince-templar a few times—before Viyeki had become a high magister their circles of acquaintanceship had barely intersected, and even afterward they seldom frequented the same gatherings—but he had heard nothing to make him think badly of Pratiki. Still, the princeling seemed to be here in the mortal lands to lend some kind of official support for this ill-considered invasion, so Viyeki knew he would have to treat him with gracious caution.
Surprisingly for one of his ruling clan, Pratiki had not brought much in the way of an entourage, just a hand of Hamakha Dragon Guards and a few clerics, nor did he unduly drag out the welcoming ceremony. Viyeki went first, greeting Pratiki with all due respect but avoiding flowery speech, which he had heard the prince-templar did not like. That bit of gossip seemed to be true, as Pratiki then watched with little enthusiasm while General Kikiti, lean and tall as a stork, made lengthy protestations of loyalty to the queen and Clan Hamakha, then was followed by Sogeyu and her Order of Song minions welcoming him with all their own ancient and ornate formulas. When they had finished, Pratiki said, “I am certain there is more important work to be done than seeing to the comfort of a mere religious official, but I thank you on behalf of the Mother of us all. You may all go now. My servants will see that I am housed. Oh, and High Magister Viyeki, will you grant me the courtesy of a short audience?”
This was intriguing if a tiny bit worrying. Viyeki waited as the prince-templar’s tent was erected—it had more sides than Viyeki’s own simple lean-to, but was otherwise quite spare and unassuming—then Pratiki sent his clerics away.
“How goes the queen’s task?” he asked Viyeki when they were alone in the tent.
“I have little progress to report, Prince-Templar.” Viyeki framed his words carefully. “The time for my Builders to do their part has not yet come. Although of course I do my best every hour and every day to serve the Mother of All.”
General Kikiti had told Viyeki that they would be excavating the tomb of legendary Ruyan Ve himself, hidden for years beneath the fortress that mortals called Naglimund. Naglimund stood only a short distance away across the valley, but at the moment, several thousand mortals still occupied that fortress, many of them well-armed soldiers. Viyeki did not know what exactly such a task would entail, and also could not imagine any way, short of open warfare, that the tomb could be reached, but those were not the kind of questions he was going to ask a lord of the high Hamakha.
“Of course,” said Pratiki with what almost seemed the hint of a smile. “I did not mean to suggest you should have finished it already, High Magister. I know you are a loyal supporter of the queen. You are Clan Enduya yourself, as I remember. An old and worthy family with a long record of service to the throne.”
Viyeki could not help wondering whether some other meaning swam beneath the prince-templar’s words, but said only, “You are kind, Serenity.”
“We will be thrown together frequently,” said the prince-templar. “I know you will serve the queen with wisdom and courage. I wished only to say to you that I am aware sometimes it is difficult to reconcile the needs and wants of different Orders, and that this may be one such time. Please do not hesitate to come to me if you need assistance or advice.”
“I will think of you as though you were the queen herself, gifting me with time and attention I could never deserve.”
Pratiki nodded, but did not seem entirely satisfied by the answer. For his own part, Viyeki could only wonder why a member of the queen’s own family was here in the middle of nowhere, on the eve of a new war against the mortals. And what could the Mother of All want with a long-dead Tinukeda’ya, even such a famous one as Ruyan the Navigator?
He bowed to an appropriate depth before the prince-templar. “All praise to the queen, all praise to her Hamakha Clan,” he said.
SCOTT SIGLER
“THROWDOWN” IS A SEQUEL TO THE STORY “VICTIM WITH A CAPITAL V,” which appeared in Unfettered II. Both stories take place in a future North America, where an unknown event caused all metal to waste away into rust. In “Victim,” a young woman named Lisa leaves an isolated mountain fortress where she had been training for a decade as a warrior, specializing in throwing glass knives. Now twenty, she wished to see the turn of the millennia in the big city of Frisco. On the night before the dawn of the year 4000, she ran into the very reason she’d fled to the mountains in the first place—the man who violated her when she was only ten years old.
As events spun out of her control, she killed that man, and is now wanted by both the Frisco law and from the dead man’s vengeful son. Accompanied by two grown men, men hardened by long years of military service, Lisa must run to stay alive.
Scott Sigler
Throwdown
“Victim with a Capital V,” Part II
Scott Sigler
On New Year’s Eve, she killed a man in Frisco.
On New Year’s Day—dawn of the first day of the new millennium, on the back of a mangy Morgan, sitting behind a man she barely knew—she ran.
The first day of the year 4000. This was not how Lisa had dreamed of spending it.
Jimmy turned his head, enough for her to see his right eye glancing back from under the rim of his cattleman’s hat.
“How’s your ass, Miss Lisa?”
It felt like it was about to fall off. Each clomp of horse hooves on the stony ground sent a dull shock into her bottom. She would have described the feeling as numb, but she’d been beaten numb before—if you still felt pain, you weren’t numb. No saddle. They hadn’t had time to steal a saddle, not that Lisa would have known how to ride in one.
“It hurts,” Lisa said. “Are we going to take a break soon?”
Jimmy faced forward, giving her the same view she’d had for the last eight or nine hours: his broad shoulders, covered by his dark gray duster, and the back of his tattered hat.
“We ain’t stopping until Fish says we stop.”
Fish. Lisa marveled at the dumb luck of it all. She’d left the Hovel, alone, walked for weeks, alone, to reach the big city. After only a few hours in town, she’d run into the Laughing Man—the very reason she’d fled to the Hovel a decade ago. Now the Laughing Man was dead, her survival seemed intertwined with two strange men, and one of those men—Fish—was making all the decisions.
Lisa wanted to go home.
She leaned right, looked past Jimmy. Fish was ten or so horse lengths ahead, atop a black-and-white painter. Fish’s dark green duster seemed to merge with the early morning mist floating through the thin pines and scrub brush that flanked both sides of this thin path.
Fish and Jimmy had both been highwaymen. Or so they said. In truth, Lisa knew nothing about them, other than that after the incident at the bar, they’d stolen horses and rushed her out of town. Nothi
ng around but the stony trail, scrub pines, and underbrush. If Fish and Jimmy tried anything with her, there was no one to hear, no one to help. Lisa was ready for that, though—her slivers were never far from her fingertips.
Jimmy knew firsthand how good Lisa was with them. So did Fish.
The Laughing Man’s corpse was testament to her skill.
Lisa shivered, tried to push away the thought of that man, facedown on the saloon table, blood gushing out of his mouth to stain the wood, to spatter across the dirty floor.
She righted herself, adjusted her light hold on Jimmy’s hips, her hands atop his gray duster. She didn’t want to touch him at all—she didn’t want to touch anyone, and didn’t want anyone touching her—but he insisted she keep hold lest she fall off.
The mist found its way through her thick robe, seemed to creep along her skin and raise goosebumps like corpses rising from the grave.
“I’m cold,” she said.
Jimmy’s hat tipped forward, came back.
“Yup,” he said. “So am I, Miss Lisa. And, yup, I’m hungry too, so just keep that one to yourself.”
He didn’t want to hear her complain anymore. She couldn’t hold that against him—out of the three of them, only Jimmy was blameless. Lisa had killed the Laughing Man, not Jimmy, and if Fish hadn’t insisted on following Lisa, she would have left the bar without hurting anyone.
Jimmy, it seemed, had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. And he’d been there because he’d chosen the wrong friend.
The first day of the New Year, of the new millennium. Lisa had hoped to spend it in Frisco, a place she had dreamed of visiting all her life. It had all gone south when she’d heard that laugh, the same laugh she’d heard a decade earlier, when it was right up against her ear, when she’d felt that man’s breath on her cheek, her neck, in her hair.
Well, he wasn’t laughing anymore. That was for sure.
She still wasn’t sure if she’d meant to kill him or not. Her hands had just moved, as if they were wild animals that would not be tamed. She’d thrown a glass sliver twenty feet into his open, laughing mouth, killing him.
The Laughing Man’s son had promised revenge. Fish and Jimmy hadn’t wanted to wait around to see if the son could back up his claim or if the Frisco cops would arrest all three of them. The Laughing Man wore the clothes of a rich man—cops tended to side with people who had money, not a wandering Victim and two ex-highwaymen.
Jimmy had stolen two horses. No point in stealing three, since Lisa couldn’t ride. They’d ridden to the Presidio, taken a ferry to Marin. The ferry had cost Lisa most of her money. Jimmy had paid half. Fish had even less money than he had teeth, and he didn’t have many teeth.
From Marin, they’d started north, riding into the night. They’d rested the horses at the far edge of a ranch, grabbing a couple of hours of sleep themselves. Fish had warned of the massive pitters that lurked in the hills. The beasts would attack travelers, but tended to steer clear of places that had more people—he’d hoped the nearby ranch would be deterrent enough for the beasts. Nothing had attacked, so as far as Lisa knew, he’d been right.
Lisa hadn’t seen a pitter in over a decade, but she knew them well. As a little girl, she’d seen a pair of them carry off her screaming little brother, yanking his body between them as they vanished over a hill.
The Morgan reached a dip, fell a little farther than expected; the jolt of landing went straight through Lisa’s ass and into her spine.
“Don’t we have to rest the horses again?”
Jimmy’s hat tipped forward, came back to level.
“Soon,” he said. “I rode this trail once. There’s ranches not too far from here. We’re better off stopping closer to those.”
“You rode this trail before?” Lisa felt a spark of hope. “So, it’s pretty safe, right?”
A pause. A pause that told her this place wasn’t even close to safe. The wind picked up, rustling the shrubs and pines, rattling the tall grass.
“We had a lot of men,” Jimmy said finally, an answer that whisked her hope away.
On the main cobbled highways, the ones laid down by the Empress so long ago, travelers were fairly safe. Far from those roads? In the places where you went hours without seeing another person? Nothing safe here.
Out here, there were monsters.
Cold, wet, hungry, afraid . . . no way to spend New Year’s Day at all.
Jimmy leaned back, stopping the horse. She felt his body stiffen.
Something was wrong.
The Morgan shifted from side to side, whinnied.
When Fish called out, his single word sent a flame of fear burning through Lisa’s body.
“Pitters!”
Jimmy cracked the reins. Lisa felt his legs kick as his spurs dug into the Morgan’s flanks. The horse shot forward; if Lisa’s hands hadn’t been on Jimmy’s hips, she would have tumbled off. She cinched her arms around his waist, her left hand grabbing her right wrist. She held on with all her strength.
She hadn’t heard anything, which shocked her when she saw the creatures rushing out of the mist on her right. Dogs in name only, the streaking shapes slid through the trees and grasses and shrubs. Muscles twitched with each step, rippling beneath mottled tan fur. Thick heads low to the ground, as steady as her hand before a sliver throw. Beady eyes staring out with a predator’s blank focus.
Four of them. No, five.
Jimmy dug his spurs in again, but the horse needed no further motivation; Lisa could feel the animal’s sheer panic.
The dogs fell in behind them, long strides closing the distance.
Lisa could do nothing but hold on.
She looked down, saw the lead pitter keeping pace on her left, its stone block of a head rock steady, eyes locked in on its prey.
The animal gathered, leapt.
Lisa kicked out, saw teeth flash, felt jaws crushing down on her foot, only for an instant, then the pressure was gone. She saw the pitter hit the ground, her boot in its teeth.
Another beast on her right, twitching muscles so pronounced the animal might have been skinless. The pitter leapt. Lisa tried to kick, hit nothing but air. The big dog slammed into the Morgan; teeth clacked on the empty space just above Lisa’s thigh.
The impact made the Morgan’s hindquarters swing out to the right; just a bit, but at that speed the horse lost balance, stumbled.
And Lisa was flying.
Her training took over: in the single second of air time, she scanned the area before her. She spread her arms, angled her body to get her feet under her. She hit, planning to kick down as she landed and roll forward with the momentum—her stockinged foot hit a sharp rock. The pain shattered her focus. She half rolled, half fell, shoulder smashing into the ground, tumbling legs over head right into a bush.
Pain . . . no time for pain.
Teeth and jaws, coming to rip her to shreds.
Lisa tried to right herself. Her robe tangled in the bush, slowing her, making her awkward.
She heard the pitter rushing in.
Jimmy, screaming.
Lisa lurched to her feet to see a pitter launching itself at her, mouth open wide, spit trailing from long white teeth.
She reached into her sleeves, fingers finding sliver handles, already knowing she was too late, knowing the thin slices of shaped, sharp glass wouldn’t hit in time.
She was dead.
A flash of blue.
A yelp.
The pitter sailed past her, trailing blood and entrails. It crashed into the bush, through it, a coil of wet intestine catching on a branch, bouncing lightly.
Fish stepped in front of Lisa, witchglass sword in his hands, the blue blade catching the light of dawn.
The Morgan, on its side, screaming, eyes wide with panic, hooves kicking, a pitter’s deadly jaws locked on its throat, the dog’s neck and shoulder muscles rippling as it shook and shook and shook. Another pitter rushed in, biting the back of the horse’s head.
Lisa heard bo
ne cracking.
Past the Morgan, Jimmy, tucked into a ball, arms in front of his face, knees to his chest as a pair of pitters dug their teeth into his duster, tried to shove their thick heads past his arms to get at his neck.
Slivers flew from Lisa’s hands. One, two, three, four . . . clear blades whipping out, glass digging into the animals attacking Jimmy. One yelped, scurried away, limping—the other backed off for only a moment, then rushed in and savaged Jimmy’s arms.
Five, six, seven, eight . . .
The dogs scooted clear of Jimmy, but they didn’t run. Sliver handles stuck out of them at odd angles. The weapons were designed to kill people—they hurt the pitters, but the animals’ tolerance for pain was far higher. One shook its head; Lisa saw one of her slivers—blood gleaming on the clear glass—fly away into the bushes. The other pitter’s face was sliced open, cheek dangling, bloody flesh gleaming in the morning light.
The Morgan spasmed, legs sticking straight out, and stopped fighting.
Its two killers rose and turned, heads low, eyes locked on Lisa and Fish.
“We’re fucked,” Fish said.
The pair attacking Jimmy leapt over him. All four of the big animals rushed forward, a vicious pack instantly operating as one hunter. Four mouths on four thick heads, driven by four powerful bodies.
Lisa drew two more slivers, tried to breathe, to calm herself. She had to hit them in the eye—it was the only chance to stop them.
From the trees and mist, the yells of men. Big bodies crashing through underbrush.
The four pitters stopped only a few feet away, heads turning right and left, toward the sounds that seemed to come from all directions but back.
Fish stepped forward and stabbed his witchglass sword. The pitters danced away, as if they already knew his range.
More yells. Lisa wanted to see where they were coming from, but she couldn’t take her eyes away from the killing beasts.
Something flashed in, sticking into the ground at the pitters’ feet: a crossbow bolt. Another hit. A third smacked into a pitter’s ribs, seeming to wobble as the animal turned and ran.
Unfettered III Page 47