“A fine proverb,” Tarkhind said with a nod and leaned forward to place his elbows on the desk and steeple his long, square fingers before him. “You seem well-versed in the common teachings of your faith, but are you familiar with the origins of it?”
The caravan master’s brow furrowed and a slow, bemused noise slipped between his lips. Of all the things he had expected of this day, discussing the origins of the Flock with Prince Tarkhind of Jehadim had to be almost the last thing he could have thought of.
“Uh…yes, well…that is, I know what has been written by founding scholars of our faith,” he replied and tried to gather his thoughts.
Was this all part of a scheme or ploy to acquire his compliance through some kind of religious manipulation? He wasn’t certain but the peculiarity of the situation put him on his guard despite his fatigue.
“So you know it all began in Jehadim,” the prince said and his eyes gleamed strangely behind the profile of his steepled fingers. “That this city was where your Shepherd first established the Flock.”
Vahrem drew a breath. He knew how foolish it was to correct royalty but when it came to matters of his faith, he suddenly seemed incapable of remaining silent.
“Well, the Flock is publicly recognized by the rest of the world,” he said. “But technically, those he first called were from Khardalis—and not even Khardalis proper but Ez’Naveth on the southwestern slopes.”
Tarkhind waved the correction away like a wayward fly.
“Yes, yes, I’m familiar with the Ten and Two,” the ruler said quickly. “But Jehadim is where the Shepherd’s bloodline began and where he kept coming back to, and it was from here that the Flock spread like an infection to touch every corner of the East—all after his disappearance, of course.”
The merchant winced, not at hearing his faith described as an infection—which was tame compared to some descriptors he’d heard—but because again, he was obliged to offer a correction.
“You are mostly correct, Prince,” he said and the words seemed to drag themselves out of him. “Except it is stated in both our writings and the words of Jehadim’s senior scribes that the Shepherd did not disappear but rather—”
“I don’t want to sit here and discuss minutia,” Tarkhind snapped and his fingers interlaced into a white-knuckled knot.
Vahrem didn’t feel the crux of his entire faith could be considered minutia by any reasonable person but the notoriously mercurial royal’s first show of temper stoked his caution.
“Then what do you wish to discuss, Prince?” the caravan master said with bowed head and an attempt to keep his voice soothing. “I understand that my life and that of everyone in this city is in your hands.”
The man threw his head back and laughed, the sound as sharp and hollow as a snake fang. He dared to look into the prince’s gaze and what he saw forced a chill through his tired frame.
He’d once seen the same light in the eyes of a ragged man the caravan had come across in the middle of the Great Desert. The poor wretch had insisted that he was Hasriim the Great and the son of Myrnatt bound within one ragged flesh. They had tried to offer him water but he’d batted it away and claimed it was poisoned by his rivals in the celestial court before he wandered into the desert screaming profane euphemisms for the male anatomy.
Vahrem had never forgotten the same fevered light that now burned him from within the prince's eyes.
“Silence!” Tarkhind snapped and turned to the corner again with a withering glare.
The caravan master remained locked in place as though a coiled viper was at the desk in front of him and not the ruler of Jehadim.
The tension of the long silence stretched thin until the prince seemed to notice him out of the corner of his eye. His attention left the corner and returned to the present but for the first time, Tarkhind seemed at a loss and even embarrassed.
“You will go and take your people with you,” he said and his gaze drifted down repeatedly in shame despite his attempts to remain composed. “You will not return until a year has passed. If you violate this, your life and those of any who aid you will be forfeit. Do you understand?”
Vahrem nodded slowly while his eyes studied every aspect of the young ruler’s face. He had been there like all of the caravan masters who frequented Jehadim when the prince was crowned and presented himself throughout a week of feasting. His gift had been a fine silver mare, one of his best, and the ruler had shown his gratitude by leaping upon the beast’s back and prancing her about the royal plaza to the surprise of many there. He’d shown himself a very competent rider but more than that, Tarkhind had revealed that he was vigorous, fearless, and keen to show he would forge his own path.
Seeing this cold, troubled man before him, he could not help pitying him.
“What has a hold of you, Prince?” he asked and leaned forward despite feeling like he was offering his face to a serpent. “Men are snatching your subjects and sojourners alike and seem to be doing it with the approval of your Hazarbed. How can you allow this? What holds you hostage to such men?”
Again, that fanged laugh ripped from the prince but this time, the merchant did not flinch but leaned forward against it.
“Do you want me to change my mind?” Tarkhind asked, his voice suddenly hot and petulant. “With a word, I could have you and your men hanging from the walls, perhaps with Argbed Alborz at your side—a fine homage to Hasriim the Great, our glorious overlord.”
Vahrem’s stomach twisted at the threat but the words came out of him anyway.
“Does it have to do with Hasriim, then? Are those being taken part of his dictates?”
It seemed so mad to think of—what could Hasriim the Great want with night-snatched captives?—but nothing else seemed to make sense either.
“I suppose it had something to do with him at first,” Tarkhind said with a strange high giggle at the back of his throat. “But then things changed, things were unearthed, and with that, they became so much more complicated.”
The merchant had no idea what to do with the statement but something like honesty emerging instead of threats seemed miraculous enough. He shuffled to the edge of his seat and rested both manacled hands and forehead on the desk.
“Prince, I am simply a man trying to honor his commitments,” he said, his brow still pressed to the wood. “I think we could help each other. You only have to help me understand what is happening in your city.”
“No one—not even Guuhal—knows what is happening in my city,” Tarkhind muttered, his eyes unfocused. “My city…my city…”
There was a knock at the door and both men jumped.
“My prince,” a gruff but apologetic voice said through the stout planks of the door. “One of the prisoners refuses to be tended to until he has proof that his master is well. What do you wish us to do?”
“Iyshan.” Vahrem sighed and wondered how such loyalty could ever become such a burden.
The two men locked gazes over the desk and both understood that the moment of frailty had passed.
“Go to your man,” the ruler of Jehadim instructed with a wave of his hand. “You have until tomorrow.”
The merchant struggled to stand, knowing what he must do, but he wondered if he should make one final attempt to sway the fracturing prince. Tarkhind, perhaps fearing what he might say, jabbed a trembling finger toward the door.
“I said go!” he all but snarled. “Or I’ll have you sheared like all sheeple deserve.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The approach to the Gatehouse would have been taxing enough with the bizarre terrain to cover but when the baying degenerates finally poured in, the situation became something from a nightmare. The two women had begun to wade through the thicket of rock when their pursuers appeared and loped in after them. Had the cavern been an open space, they’d have been run down and overwhelmed in an instant but thanks to the maze-like division of the area, the hunters moved in roving splinters rather than a crashing wave.
; Any splinter unlucky enough to reach them was met with a flashing ax and plunging dagger.
Still, Ax-Wed and Zoria were running again. This time, however, it was a nerve-wracking jog between the stony trunks in pale twilight rather than a blind sprint through the dark.
The Thulian could gauge that they were drawing closer to the iridescent structure by the way the light among the pillars grew, but given some of the blind turns toward dead ends they’d already encountered, she feared it wouldn’t be long before they were cornered. The last group of pallid scavengers was still dying ten strides behind where she and Zoria now stood but soon, the creatures would gather in large groups for their safety if nothing else. If one of these larger packs caught them or worse, lay in wait for them, it would be over. The girl would be snatched first and the sheer weight of numbers combined with limited avenues of escape would guarantee that she would be dragged down eventually.
And death would be mercy too long in coming.
Not for the first time since entering the darkness, a creeping and half-formed thought of self-annihilation slithered through her mind. It was nothing so precise as a plan but it now insinuated that she could do the noble task of ending Zoria’s suffering with one hard stroke before she finished herself. It would spare them a good deal of pain and toil, she reasoned, but something deep in her heart rejected the perverse idea. This combined with the gradual growing of the wan light kept her moving through the forest of stone, her head turning continuously while her gaze searched their surroundings.
Thanks to this desperate vigilance, she noticed something strange and a moment later, caught Zoria by the shoulder before a lethal footfall. On the floor of the cave was an expanse of darkness as swallowing and impenetrable as the space between the stars.
“What is it?” the girl asked and stared with horrified wonder.
“I’m not sure,” Ax-Wed said although deep down, she was afraid that wasn’t true. “But whatever it is, this close to the Gatehouse, we can’t take any chances. Old evil like this corrupts everything around it.”
The darkness stretched across the chamber, a flat anti-gloss across the stone. Beyond an expanse of perhaps a hundred paces, the outer walls of the Gatehouse rose in pearly luminescence. From where they stood, no path or bridge could be seen that would take them over the eerie dark-painted floor.
“How will we get across that?” Zoria cried and looked nervously over her shoulder.
“I’m not sure,” the Thulian repeated as something close to panic tightened around her chest like a python. “I need a second to think.”
“Time’s up!” the girl cried in a terror-tightened voice. “They're here.”
Behind them, a wailing war cry rose and they both spun to see a pack of degenerates bounding between the pillars toward them. At their heels came something like one of the shadow-handed unhallowed they’d faced earlier.
“I told you,” Ax-Wed muttered as she hauled her companion around to pitch her against a stone pillar. “Keep stone at your back and stay behind me.”
The girl drew her dagger and uttered a challenge profane enough to make the warrior woman blush.
“Yes,” she muttered as she turned to face the tide of horrors. “What she said.”
The first creature to spring forward was caught while airborne with a single swing that reversed to cleave the spine of the next degenerate that lunged at her legs. They fell, still gnashing their teeth and raking the air while thick blood jetted from gaping wounds.
Behind the fallen, the other creatures prowled like wolves at bay. They snuffled and snapped as they searched for weakness but found nothing but armored sinew and Thulian sylver to greet them.
“Blazphemerz!” the unhallowed screeched behind the pack.
“You certainly like that tune.” The Thulian chuckled as she brandished her ax with a taunting flourish. “Maybe I’ll teach you one of my own.”
Pouncing with leonine force, Ax-Wed rushed forward and scythed her ax in a singing stroke. The degenerates squealed and their black eyes bulged in terror. Two of them were too slow and staggered back with their guts spilling from their split bellies. A lump turned its twisted arm into a crude hammer as one of the degenerates launched an attack but her ax haft swept up to check the blow and wrist bones shattered with a crunch.
Mad with fear or rage, the wounded creature lunged with its undamaged claw, but she caught it by the throat with one hand and threw it aside with contemptuous ease. Before it could even gnaw at her greaves, she stamped on it and her armored bulk crushed flesh and bone.
“Who’s next?” She snarled and spread her arms in a challenge when the degenerates recoiled.
Her gaze swept the cringing remains of the hunting party and she realized that she’d lost track of the unhallowed degenerate. And why had she moved so far from Zoria?
Ax-Wed spun on her heel in time to see a degenerate collapse under a flurry of stabs delivered to its chest and belly by her companion. The creature—it must have crept behind Ax-Wed—sank to the floor with a whimper.
The girl gave her a bloody salute as ribbons of darkness streaked toward her from around the pillar. The curling strands of shadow were about to ensnare her but before the Thulian could scream a warning, she was knocked to one side by a sudden clinging weight. As she staggered to one side and rebounded off a stone column, she caught a glimpse of Zoria struggling against the entangling black tendrils that sprouted from the arms of the unhallowed degenerate.
Three of the creatures clawed and snapped at her armored hands and arms and had pushed her against the stone. They pressed their advantage and tried to snatch the ax in her firm grasp. With a feral growl, she heaved against their combined weight and they staggered back a step, but she was dragged with them when their claws clung doggedly to the haft.
They surged toward her and she planted her feet as she leaned into their onslaught. A fourth creature clambered over the backs of its fellows, a rag-wrapped iron spike held high for a fatal blow.
Somewhere in the dark, Zoria screamed in fear and pain.
Ax-Wed roared with a fury to set stone to trembling and drove forward, bowled the three that held fast to her ax over, and rushed through to the fourth with her weapon now free. Thulian sylver split its arm at the elbow before an armored brow butted into snapping jaws. The degenerate fell away in a shower of red spittle and shattered teeth and blood from its truncated arm splashed across the floor in broad arcs.
Two sharp chops took care of two of those fallen at her feet but the last swing bit deeply through ribs and lodged the blade in the dying creature. The third degenerate, a shrunken example of its malformed kind, scrambled to escape but she would not be denied. She used one hand as she pivoted to snatch a trailing arm.
Anchoring herself with her weight and the burdened weapon, Ax-Wed hurled the creature bodily over her shoulder. It tumbled through air and across stone and terminated its trajectory with a bounce into the blackness spread across the floor.
The would-be hunter uttered a pitiful scream, the closest thing to a human sound she’d heard from the degenerates, and raked with splintering claws as it tried to escape the blackness that lapped over it like an undulating wave. Its legs sank to a depth that was beyond the physical as spindly hands made of the same utter darkness rose to drag the rest of the unfortunate creature deeper.
The Thulian knew what would happen and even worse, what it meant but she couldn’t turn away as she absently tugged her ax free.
The inky hands, unnervingly flat as though they only existed only in two dimensions, dug through flesh like it was pastry dough and elicited more screams. Trembling rippled through the papyrus-thin limbs like strings going taut and the degenerate was snapped into the swallowing darkness.
She attempted to shake off the shock at what she’d seen and her gaze searched for Zoria as her heart leapt into her throat.
Raise your eyes and survey my works, the Voice declared with a sudden intensity that made her wonder if her head was about
to split.
Her eyes watering from the mental bludgeoning, she raised her gaze to the Gatehouse.
The unhallowed stood upon the outer wall with Zoria’s limp body cradled in its stained arms.
“Not even the depths of the Kingdom will hide you if you hurt her!” the warrior woman screamed as she stormed to the edge of the blackness. “I swear by the Grim Maiden and the damned foundations of Xhulth that I will come for you. Not even the One-Eyed King will save you.”
The unhallowed threw back its head but it was the Voice that mocked her. Atlacothix’s stygian laughter echoed over and through the stone.
“I believe you,” the Tzitohn called across the night-sewn expanse between them. “And I want you to follow me but now, I wonder why we should be set against each other?”
Ax-Wed thought the corpses of Atlacothix’s children seemed a ready answer for that question but for Zoria’s sake, she remained silent and watchful.
“I know why you seek this ruin,” the Voice declared. “And should you be who you claim, perhaps we need not be enemies.”
“Now he tells me,” she muttered under her breath before she raised her voice. “What did you have in mind?”
The thoughtful silence stretched long enough that she checked to see if she was about to be ambushed twice before the answer came from the Gatehouse walls.
“Prove you are worthy to enter my tabernacle and I swear the child will live.”
She stared at Zoria dangling in the creature’s claws and lowered her gaze to the utter darkness that yawned before her. She guessed what was about to be demanded of her but she found time to pray to Morah that she was wrong.
“Show that the blood of Thule still runs strong,” Atlacothix shouted to her. “Prove that you are indeed a child of the City of Gates and may cross in safety.”
The hungry darkness, the swallowing unlife of the Cacophonic Realms spread before her in challenge. She shook off the image of flat hands reaching toward her and considered what it would cost her to refuse or to accept. Immediate damnation would be what waited for her if she failed but then again, what did she expect to find at the end of her days if she surrendered Zoria to the thing that called to her from the wall?
Circle In The Deep (The Outcast Royal Book 1) Page 24