“I’m sorry. I know I should have asked your permission first.”
“I would have forbidden it.”
“I know. I guess I figured if I didn’t ask, I wasn’t really disobeying.”
“Ah. Adolescent logic.”
Ravn did not dare to defend his action, only his methods on Midgard. “I was subtle. Like you taught.”
“What did you do?”
“She made a prayer bargain, you know the way people do: ‘If Griff is alive, give me a sign.’ She was standing under a tree, so I had the branches kind of close around her a bit. Gentle, like a hug. And I whispered that Griff was all right with the breeze.” Ravn’s apprehension lessened, replaced by a quavering hope. A trickle of pride wound through him.
Colbey would have liked to boost his son’s self-esteem, but the situation did not allow it. “I don’t think your actions will harm the Balance this time; but you still have a lot to learn about subtlety.” His hands dropped to his hilts. “Your lesson begins now.”
Knowing better than to argue, Ravn braced himself for a spar that would leave him bruised, aching, and leagues past exhaustion.
CHAPTER 8
Death on the Roads
Distraction is not a substitute for learning to deal with reality.
—Colbey Calistinsson
Salt-crazed and achingly dry, Tae Kahn remembered nothing of his beaching. His senses returned as he lay with his face in a puddle, slurping what seemed like buckets of water, like an animal. Finally sated, he rose to his haunches, turning eyes and ears to his surroundings. Mountains filled both horizons, steep jagged monsters with rare vegetation twisting from their crags. His tiny valley pooled enough moisture to support a stiff undergrowth, a handful of trees, and a vine that crept snakelike along the branches.
Another wave of thirst seized Tae like a convulsion. Dipping his mouth back into the water, he sucked greedily, this time noticing the bracken and mud that accompanied it. The dull suffering of his kidneys spread into a net of pain along his back. His stomach felt bloated with liquid that only temporarily appeased his hunger. Soon, he hoped, the water would diffuse into the proper places in his body. Thirst would return to its normal baseline, his skin would no longer feel doughy, and his tongue would quit sticking to the sides of his mouth. Until then, his natural wariness remained hopelessly blunted, and he had little choice but to remain in place and hope no man or animal came upon him.
Gradually, Tae’s discomfort waned, as did his irresistible craving for water. He clambered to his hands and knees, his snarled mass of black hair falling, as a single clump, into eyes nearly as dark. He flung the whole back, wishing he still had his knife to shear the mess to stubble. He envied Kevral’s short locks for a moment before his thoughts turned to her welfare and dread dropped him back to his stomach. Tears stung his eyes, abnormally salty; for once, he did not fight them. He had learned never to show weakness of any kind because it invited predators, even goaded them to a frenzy. Now, he ignored the lesson years on the street had ingrained. His sorrow overwhelmed even instinct.
Reuniting with his companions, including the woman he loved, required Tae to head toward Béarn. He had traveled to and from there only once before, hidden in Western woodlands for which his city upbringing had ill-prepared him. Hunted by enemies of his father, he had learned swiftly, his best strategy to parallel roads and head as far from the Eastlands’ border as possible. At least, the forests had supplied ample vegetation, moisture, and wildlife. Now his survival instinct drove him north from the rocky, barren terrain toward the wooded and more populous portions of the Westlands. These posed more danger, but at least he would not want for food or water nor could he trap himself against impassable crags. Ultimately, though he would cover more ground, he would reach Béarn far sooner.
For two nights, Tae traveled through the Western woodlands around the city of Almische, while voices wafted to him from the roadways. Occasionally, brush rustled and snapped near him; twice he caught sight of weaponed Easterners patrolling the routes. By day, he huddled in thick copses, sleep stolen by the jab of branches and thistles, or he huddled on the ground and hoped his still quietness would become lost in the normal stripes, patches, and movement of the forest.
Tae reached the Road of Kings during his third night. Moonlight revealed hulking forms that he at first mistook for larger clusters of enemies. Then his senses registered the unnatural stillness of many of the figures, and he recalled the many statues that graced the ancient route. Those stood in tribute to King Sterrane the Bear and the Western Wizard who spirited him from the castle as a child during his uncle’s bloody coup and returned him to his throne as an adult. The statues’ purpose mattered little to Tae. He noticed only that his days had become more restless. Dodging the Easterners who prowled the Western roadways had grown familiar while he traveled with his companions. Now, the enemies seemed to have trebled, their scouts spiraling deeper into the woodlands. The previous night, the feeling of someone watching had prickled through him twice, requiring a change of sleeping space. Exhaustion still weighted him from his battle against demon and ocean. Dehydration had weakened him; he found slim opportunity for gathering food. The need to remain hyperalert granted him little rest.
As dawn painted the eastern horizon in shades of pink, Tae scavenged desperately for a hidden place to camp. Fatigue crushed thought into a hopelessly dense fog. His muscles ached, and his slender body seemed to have doubled in weight. As if to mock him, the forest grew more open, providing scant cover. The sun rose higher, splashing oranges, yellows, and greens across a background of rose and dark sapphire. Need turned his search for a sanctuary to any spot not glaringly open. The shade of thickly-leafed oaks and the acid of their nuts kept them widely spaced and devoid of undergrowth. Tae’s vision blurred, and his lids drooped shut against his will, further hampering the search. At length, he found a clearing hemmed by squatty, bushlike jufinar trees. He wiggled between two, then sprawled to the berry-speckled ground to catch his breath before securing camp. He fell asleep an instant later.
* * *
Tae Kahn awakened to the sharp snap of a breaking branch. He leaped to his feet, and dizziness washed his senses to a weaving spiral of dots. Consciousness wavered. He back-stepped without intent, the instinctive movement all that rescued his balance. For a moment, his senses retreated behind a roaring, black wall. Desperately, he fought for control and regained it, only to find himself facing a semicircle of seven Easterners brandishing weapons.
Icy terror gripped Tae’s chest. He whirled and ran in a single, fluid motion. Within two steps, the jufinars loomed in front of him. He dove without wasting time to judge the best path. Branches clawed his face and neck. Like an animal, he wriggled through, tasting blood. Fire seemed to score his flesh, and a limb snagged his hair. His own momentum jerked his head backward so hard a flash of white light slammed his vision, and agony lanced through his neck. Hands closed around his ankles. His feet went numb. His grip winched closed around the largest objects he could find, a trunk and a branch of jufinar. The strangers hauled him backward, sticks jabbing rents through already tattered clothing.
Tae stifled a cry of pain. Show no weakness. Sweat stung his eyes, and he threw all concentration into his holds. If he let go, he died. He wet his pants, and the self-directed rage that followed his loss of control fueled a second wind. Abruptly, he kicked, freeing one leg, and surged forward simultaneously. He tore his other ankle free. Free! Tae sprang for the opening. Branches parted around him. Then agony flashed through his scalp, and the limb entwining his hair jerked him backward. For an instant, pain incapacitated him. The hands closed around him again, pinching and bruising his flesh. A string of the foulest words in the Eastern language assaulted his ears, all directed at him.
Effort and pain brought tears to Tae’s eyes. Panic assailed him, and he lost all ability to fight it. He exploded into a reckless flurry of attack: kicking and punching, twisting and clawing in undirected fury. The Easterners
dragged him into the clearing, repeatedly flinching into retreat then rushing back in to work around his crazed defense. One by one, they pinned each limb until he lay spread-eagled on the ground.
Rationality returned to Tae in a rush, and he went suddenly still. His eyes flitted from enemy to enemy, registering nothing. Closing his lids, he forced slow, deep breaths and inner calm. Panic had shattered composure into a mindless frenzy that had accomplished nothing more than tiring him further and enraging men who held his fate in their hands. Carefully, he opened his eyes and took in the situation.
All of the Easterners sported black hair, and eyes that ranged from deep brown to dark hazel. Two were clean-shaven while the others wore beards without mustaches. Swarthy skin and coarse features completed the picture. Five riveted him to the ground. Blood ebbed from one’s nose, thickened with snot, and his eyes held a glaze of homicidal fury. Apparently, at least one of Tae’s crazed blows had landed.
The injured man seized Tae’s tunic in a filthy, callused hand and tore off a jagged patch of cloth. He swiped it across his nose, stared at the smear of blood, then hurled it back onto Tae’s chest. “You’re dead.”
Tae’s gang training finally blundered through surprise and exhaustion. He stared back dispassionately, saying nothing. The longer the other raved, the more likely his companions would grow careless and Tae would find the opening he needed to escape.
The other man who wasn’t holding Tae down reached for his hilt. A sword rattled free, blade notched and steel gleaming dully in the sunlight.
New blood trickled from his companion’s nose, and the injured one raised a hand. Though he addressed the man with the sword, his gaze never left Tae’s. Tae read nothing human in the dark orbs, just a predatory hunger only his own death would satisfy. “Please, Usyris, I want this one.”
The eyes of the holders shifted to Usyris, clearly the leader. His lips pursed in a tight line. Sheathing his weapon, he nodded and stepped back. “Don’t take too long.”
Disappointment flickered briefly through the injured man’s eyes, but his grin revealed only sadistic pleasure. From peripheral vision, Tae noticed that the man at his right wrist looked away. The one at his head flinched, and the one at his left leg lowered his face as if in prayer. Clearly, their companion’s cruel joy bothered them, and Tae wondered if he could exploit their discomfort, if not their mercy. Cautiously, he tested the hold on his right hand only to find it steady.
Still fixated on Tae’s eyes, the man drew a long knife from his belt sheath. Dried blood etched irregularities in the blade.
Tae’s attention flicked from man to blade and back to man. Show no fear. The words started to lose meaning. Memory pressed in on him, though he struggled valiantly to stifle it. He could still feel the punch of blades through his chest and abdomen, the tear of flesh and the suck of steel withdrawing audible even beneath his screams. The blood in his throat had choked him, and its sickly odor filled his nostrils once again. The more he fought, the faster the stabs had come. Unconsciousness had claimed him willingly, blanketing the pain, the terror, the unfulfilled need to rescue his mother from a similar fate. At ten, Tae had not understood the outrage that accompanied the agony of his mother’s screams. Now he knew they had raped as well as killed her.
Don’t strain. Don’t scream. Don’t give him the satisfaction. Save energy for any openings they give for escape. Though sound, the advice defied reality. Tae felt his control slipping again as the knife filled his vision and remembrance lugged him back to his childhood.
The blade traced a cold line along Tae’s cheek. The man’s dead eyes betrayed no hint of compassion. To men like this, mercy was a weakness. “Perhaps I’ll start with your eyes.” The tip of the knife pricked Tae’s lower lid. “You won’t be needing them anymore.”
Don’t blink. Tae kept his expression stony, testing the holds on his limbs and head with minuscule movements. Not one granted him quarter.
“Nacoma,” Usyris reprimanded softly.
A slight smile twitched onto Nacoma’s features, but he did grant his leader a promise in the form of a threat against Tae. “Given more time, I’d make this as slow and painful as possible. You should thank my commander for his kindness.” The grin widened into a rictus. “I’ll have to make do with only painful.” The knife jerked suddenly downward.
As Tae recognized the target, he could not stop a convulsive heave. The abrupt movement strained every contact point, and ten sets of fingers gouged his flesh. Pain shot through his head, and it felt as if his ear had become detached. Then the blade tore a line above his loins, and all other pain lost meaning. Cold air washed over his flesh, pleasant contrast to the heat of his fear. His brain naturally assessed the injury: superficial, designed to cut clothes and frighten him, not to maim. The smooth stroke had sliced open tunic and breeks, fully exposing him to his murderer.
Tae recognized the technique as a panic-inspiring gesture. The knife would pierce vital organs as easily naked or clothed, but Nacoma had found one more way to embarrass his victim and prolong his agony.
Usyris drew breath, presumably to hurry as well as discipline Nacoma.
The knife, and Nacoma’s fingers, found the depression between Tae’s left second and third ribs. Steel carved through flesh to muscle with an unbearably familiar ache. One hard shove would drive the blade through his heart and end his suffering. Thrown back to childhood tragedy, he closed his eyes and embraced oblivion.
“Wait! What’s that?”
The knife froze in position, and Tae whipped his eyes open. The man at Tae’s left leg pointed frantically at him. Every eye studied his exposed chest and abdomen. He could only assume their interest stemmed from the sixteen scars.
Nacoma’s blade withdrew, and the fire left his eyes. His death mask grin became a jagged line of uncertainty. “You don’t think. . . .”
Usyris waved the killer silent, and his hazel eyes found Tae’s for the first time. “What’s your name, boy?”
Tae swallowed. Blood trickled down chest and thigh in warm, sticky rivulets. He cursed the fatigue and fear that fogged his mind, wishing he knew the best answer. Likely, they knew who he was. They had already made it clear they would kill a stranger. Identifying himself as a known enemy might spare him. Perhaps some rival crime lord had instructed them to bring him back alive, either as ransom or to torture him for information. Neither of those options sounded appealing to Tae, but at least they might gain him time. “Tae Kahn, Weile Kahn’s son.” His voice emerged as a thin croak, and he despised the weakness. He recited his full name. In the East, shortening names was deliberate insult, relegation to the status of an inferior.
Tae tried to read the silence that followed, without success.
“Let him go,” Usyris finally instructed.
Tae waited only until the grips had eased slightly before twisting free and sprinting for the clearing’s edge.
“Tae Kahn! Wait! We won’t hurt you.” Usyris’ voice chased Tae to the jufinar. He sounded impossibly sincere.
Tae struggled between the stubby trees, this time thrashing his way to the opposite side. Movement widened his wounds, and blood spilled between his ribs in a steady stream. The loss, though minor, sapped the last of his reserves. He staggered a single step farther, then dropped in exhaustion.
Usyris said something to his men, too soft for Tae’s hearing, then headed alone through the brush. He selected a path behind them, where some gaps remained between the jufinar. Deliberately drawing his sword, he made a grand gesture of tossing it over the trees and into the clearing. Hands empty, palms exposed, he approached Tae. “I’m sorry we hurt you. I swear we didn’t know who you were.”
Tae clamped a hand to the larger of his wounds, trying to staunch the bleeding with his fingers. He had nothing better to use; his clothes lay in the clearing. He back-stepped, the movement causing dark, intermittent breaks in his consciousness.
Usyris stopped. All the sympathy Tae could not find in Nacoma’s eyes softened U
syris’ expression now. “Your father will be happy to see you.”
My father? Tae tried to concentrate on the thought while his awareness flickered like a failing candle. He studied the Easterners in this new light. He had become so accustomed to eluding Weile’s enemies, it never occurred to him that those who attacked him might be his father’s own men. Rarely, Weile had performed his business in Tae’s presence. Now he thought he recognized the man who had pinned his right hand as one of the shadowed hoodlums who visited his father. Tae attempted to rise. The movement proved his undoing. His wits and senses gave out, and he collapsed into oblivion.
* * *
Tae awakened to a memory blank that bothered him as much as the realization that he was not alone. He remained still, eyes closed and breathing regulated, refusing to reveal his awakening until he recalled the others as friends or foes. Remembrance hovered, frustratingly beyond reach. Cautiously, he opened one eye to a slit, hoping vision would spark the proper pathways. A man sat far enough away to assure Tae that he was not a prisoner yet near enough to remain a threat. A sword rested across his knees.
Tae focused on the weapon, then on the man. Black hair hung around the profile of a clean-shaven, dark face. Easterner equals enemy. Tae launched himself for the other. He dove, catching the sword, then rolled to a crouch.
“Tae Kahn.” Startled, the man rose quickly and retreated beyond sword range. “Easy, Tae Kahn.” He held out his hands in a gesture of peace.
Nausea churned through Tae’s gut, and memory slammed him in a wild rush. He remembered now he faced Usyris, a leader of his father’s entourage who had six men at his command, including an uninhibited assassin named Nacoma. Tae lowered the sword.
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