Wannabe leader? “Lehmor?” she blurted out. She brought the blade closer to his face. “He’s with the Old Woman. What did you do to him?”
He studied her with unflinching eyes; eyes that had seen too much to be afraid of a fiery blade. “You’re his wife, aren’t you?”
“Moirah of the Fire Clan,” she replied without thinking.
“They call me Abaddon,” he said and pushed back the cowl. A deep scar seemed to split his head in two, in a diagonal line that cut through his face. Moirah caught a glimpse of a silver necklace; a wolf howling into the night. “The Wolf! You’re the one Lehmor told me about.”
He tucked the necklace back into his dark jerkin. “Nice to meet you. I’m sorry for this.”
Her brow furrowed. “For what?”
In one swift movement, he raised his hand to his mouth and blew. A mist engulfed her, and her knees buckled from under her. She dropped to the ground, still conscious, but unable to move. Her Sheimlek landed next to her, its light extinguished.
Abaddon pulled her to the wall and sat her there, her back against the wall. “Don’t fight it, and it will pass soon enough. Your husband is a fool, but a brave fool. I wouldn’t want to harm his wife.”
He rushed towards the dungeon door and banged it with his fist once. The muffled noise barely broke the stillness of the night, but the door creaked open immediately and he disappeared through the entrance. A moment later, he emerged again, followed by the rest of his team. Three of them carried a heavy body with them, while the rest spread around Abaddon. They rushed towards the stables. Moirah tried to move, but excruciating pain filled every muscle with every movement, as if the ligaments would tear off. A muffled, frustrated sigh escaped her lips instead of the attempted scream, and she almost fainted from the burning pain.
“Stop!” The command rang through the quiet courtyard. Rivka stormed out of the building, followed by a dozen guards. Abaddon and three of the Wolves turned to face them, while the rest hurried towards the walls.
“You don’t want to do this,” Abaddon growled.
“Then surrender,” Rivka shouted. “You’re outnumbered.”
Abaddon chuckled and lit blades appeared in the hands of the four Wolves. “You have iron. We have Sheimleks,” he said. “You surrender.”
“Sheimleks are to be used against Fallen, not against the Lady’s First,” Rivka said and spat on the ground. “You don’t serve the Lady.”
“Oh, but we do,” Abaddon said and charged. The three Wolves followed him, their fiery blades cutting through the First’s weapons with ease. “Don’t kill them!” Abaddon ordered, but several guards were already lying on the ground. Rivka found herself fighting a Wolf, who thrust his Sheimlek at her. She ducked and the blade missed her by a hair. As the man’s momentum carried him past her, she raised her elbow, catching his ribs. She heard with satisfaction a rib crack, and the man’s cry of pain. She swung around, hitting him with her elbow in the back, and the man landed at her feet, his Sheimlek flying through the air. She grabbed it before it fell on the ground, but its blade flickered and died.
“Shame. I always wanted one of these.” She flung the useless weapon to the ground before throwing herself back into the battle with a loud cry.
More guards were now rushing towards the Wolves, filling the courtyard. “You leave me no choice,” Abaddon yelled and thrust his fist onto the ground. A shockwave engulfed them, like a deafening, dark earthquake, and they dropped to their knees, disoriented. When they came to, the Wolves had disappeared. So had the Bear.
The Marshes
Gella
Gella froze in her path. Her eyes darted to the woods surrounding her. All her instincts told her that something was wrong, but it took her a moment to figure out what: the forest sounds had died out. A deafening silence had replaced the birds’ pleasant chirp. This could only mean one thing; she had company.
She tried to stifle her cough; she had caught a nasty cold, and was running a fever. She had been walking for five days now, trying to stay on an eastwards course. Having no way to carry water, she had kept close to the river. This meant she had a fresh supply of water at all times, but it also disoriented her. The trees around her were too tall for her to see the night stars, and she followed the morning sun as best as she could, doubling back to meet the river again half a day later on a couple of occasions. She had only eaten once; a large, sweet fish she had managed to catch with her hands on the third day. Grilled over the night fire, it was the best lunch she could remember. Unfortunately, she had eaten the last piece the day before and had been unable to catch anything since.
Her head felt light and feverish as she instinctively placed a hand over her belt, looking for her dagger. She then remembered she had lost it in the river, along with everything else. Glancing around her, she grabbed a thick branch and swung it a couple of times, all the while listening for any sounds. For a moment, all she could hear was her own panting. Then, the rustling of leaves behind her. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught something rushing towards her and jumped to the side, but the fever made her slow and clumsy. She let out a surprised cry as a throwing knife caught her on the shoulder.
A tall man emerged from behind a tree. Even at a distance, his pale, icy blue eyes caught her attention. The eyes of a killer. Is this one of Teo’s men? He had a shaved head with blond stubble and colourful tattoos of demons on his arms. Ignoring the pain, she pulled the knife out and grasped it, throwing away her makeshift club. Even a throwing knife was better than no knife, and the dagger was lighter and more familiar to her.
“Thanks, I needed a weapon,” she said through gritted teeth, trying to mask the pain from her voice.
He chuckled in amusement. “You’re a hard woman to find,” he said. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end when he spoke. His guttural voice sounded strange, artificial somehow. She tried to trace his accent, but it was unfamiliar. Definitely not one of Teo’s men.
“Who are you? What do you want?” she asked, taking a wary step back. He moved with a preying grace that unnerved her. “How did you find me?”
Unsheathing a dagger, he approached her, his mesmerising gaze still fixed on her. “The shrine. The eye of the Oras,” he murmured.
“The what of the who?” Struggling to break the spell, she charged him with a grunt.
He pushed her knife away with little effort, and punched her in the face, catching her by surprise. The hilt of his dagger crushed her right eye socket and she fell backwards, momentarily stunned. Years of practice kicked in and she caught herself as soon as she crashed to the ground, clasping her knife to prepare for another attack. The vision from her right eye was blurry and her head swam when she blinked. The adrenaline pumping through her body dulled the pain, but that would no doubt change soon.
He circled her, moving ever closer. As she turned to confront him, he whirled around and lowered his body, extending his leg. His foot thrust her into the air. She landed on her back, feeling the shock through her body, and immediately pushed upwards to get back onto her feet, but his elbow caught her in the chest and she dropped back on the ground. He landed heavily on her before she could rise again. His weight took the wind out of her, but she still raised her hand to slash at him. She was too slow, though; he blocked her hand with his right elbow, and punched her throat with his left hand.
His punch almost crushed her clogged windpipe and she coughed, trying to catch her breath. His weight made it even harder, and when he punched her wounded shoulder she cried out and let the knife in her hand drop to the ground. He leaned back and let her crawl to her side, bringing her legs to her chest like an infant, in a vain attempt to protect herself and stop the shivering. She let out a cry when he grabbed her short hair and pulled, bringing his face close to hers. Feeling desperate, she tried to bring her legs up in order to kick him, but before she could do so, he plunged his dagger into her abdomen and left it there. With a loud gasp, she clasped it with both hands and tried to pull it out, a
s he raised himself to his feet to stare at her. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, choking her. She gurgled and spat. He cocked his head and watched the life ooze out of her body with the detached curiosity of a boy pulling apart a fly.
“Parad…” She sighed his name, a whispering cry for help, and his lips crept upwards.
“You’ll meet him soon enough,” he promised in a soft, reassuring voice and pulled out the dagger in one swift move. She let out a loud groan as blood gushed out of her wound, soiling the grass a bright crimson red, and tried to stop it with shaking fingers. He gently placed his hand on hers, dipped his middle finger into the flowing liquid and sucked on it, like a lollipop, his icy eyes still fixed on hers, a small fire growing in them. Then he rose to his feet and a dark, writhing mist swallowed him as he disappeared into the thick forest.
Malekshei
Lehmor
“So, what’s the damage?” Lehmor asked Moirah. She was resting her head on her hands, lying naked on the bed next to him. Lifting one hand, she traced a thin line on the fine mist glistening on his chest. He had arrived in the afternoon, along with his four new companions, and Moirah had immediately dragged him into the bedroom to make love all evening. He had been surprised at her passion, then remembered how many times he had used sex to put out the heat of the battle. A contented sigh escaped his lips. He wished this moment would never end, and tried to capture the moment, to hold on to it for the days to come. Through heightened senses he took it all in; the post-coital clarity of thought, the lucid afterglow of sex, the warmth of her embrace.
Her voice whipped him back to the stark reality they faced. “The Bear is gone.”
“What about our people?”
“One dead, two injured. The rest will be fine.”
He shook his head. “This is my fault. I should have been here.”
“You did what you could.” She sounded supportive, but he wondered what she really thought of his decisions.
“And I must face the consequences.”
“We all do,” she reminded him, and a pang of guilt went through his heart. She could have died! The realization made him shiver. She mistook this for cold, and raised the blanket to cover him. “That’s not the worst of it,” she continued.
He gave her a bewildered look. “What is?” She stayed silent for a moment, making his heart beat faster. What now?
“The Argikar. The shaman says they’re gone.”
Lehmor gaped at her. “Yes! The shimmering’s gone.”
Her brow furrowed. “What shimmering?”
He shook his head, his forehead creased by troubled thoughts. “We’re defenceless. How could she?”
She grasped his hand. “We’ll be alright.”
He squeezed her hand and forced a smile, but his eyes betrayed his true thoughts on their chances.
“Anyway, what will you do now?” she asked in an obvious effort to change the subject.
Lehmor pondered Moirah’s question, wondering the same thing himself. “I don’t know.”
She placed a hand against his face to caress him. “Why don’t you do what the Lady said? Perhaps she’ll forgive us, give us the Argikar back.”
There was a hint of despair in her voice that cut him like a razor. His jaw jutted forward, a stubborn gesture that once upon a time would have made her laugh. “I can’t. It’s about balance. The Orbs hate all Iotas. I don’t.”
“After all they’ve done?”
He smiled at her surprise. “You cannot hate others without hating yourself. Oran taught me that. How can I kill a thousand men for one’s mistake?”
“Even so, don’t you hate what they did to you?”
For a moment he did not understand what she meant, then he cringed in mental pain. “I want more children. Maybe one day –”
“I meant forcing you to kill the Old Woman,” she interrupted him softly.
He nodded in embarrassment. “I will kill Pratin and Stripet. No more.”
“Why not? I mean, if it’s the Lady’s wish?”
“Who speaks the Lady’s wish – the Archon, or Parad? The Orbs, they’re confused like us.”
“How can that be?”
“I remember the first time my dad took me to see the Old Woman. I was so scared, I nearly ran away. But she was so gentle, I’d do anything for her. When Stripet told me what she’d done, I refused to believe it.”
“What do you believe now?”
His mind raced back to her telling him of the night’s events. She could have died! He tightened his arms around her before replying. “Everyone has their agenda.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say!”
“Why?”
“There are things you’d never do, no matter how great your need,” she insisted. “The Iotas have crossed many lines. They’re evil!”
Why can’t she see that the Old Woman betrayed us, just like Pratin did? “The Old Woman stole our Argikar. I want revenge. I’ll kill Pratin. I’ll kill Stripet. But not Oran. Not all Iotas.”
Moirah leaned back to face him. “Still, we haven’t created monsters that kill people,” she protested.
“No? David says we created the Whispers when we destroyed the Iota’s world.”
She gave him a hard look. He could see his words had angered her; her face had turned a deep red. Despite himself, his gaze drifted downwards, to the tattooed fire covering her naked breasts. It pulsed with every angry breath she took, and he eyed hungrily the flames on her chest that came alive with the pulsing blood under her skin.
“That’s a load of crap,” she yelled at him. “How can you make excuses for the freaks who killed your father? How can you say I’m the same as them?”
“I don’t. We all make choices. I chose to return. If Pratin wants Malekshei, I will kill him. To protect you. That does not make me hate all Iotas.”
“You sound like one of them!” She sat upright in an abrupt movement to give him a hard look. “It’s about balance,” she mimicked his voice. “Where was that balance when they murdered your dad? Or Two-horns’ son? Is that what you’ll think when they kill every one of us, yourself included?”
Oh boy, she’s furious. He did not feel angry at her, just a little disappointed that he had failed to make her understand his point. Maybe that’s the last thing she needs to hear, though. If there’s nothing noble in our deaths, then everyone’s sacrifice will be in vain. I shouldn’t take that from her.
“So, all those deaths were for nothing?” she asked, as if answering his thoughts.
“It’s not about death. It’s about life.”
“How so?” she said, turning her bare back to him.
“We all die. The question is how. In honour or in shame.”
She said nothing, so he embraced her from behind, feeling her shiver under his fingers. “You speak of honour,” she whispered. “What of our daughter? Must she die, too, for your honour?”
He froze at the thought, more confused than ever. Still holding her, he turned her around slowly to wipe her tears. “I’m sorry,” he repeated and held her close.
She sobbed in his arms as he stroked her hair. “Do you know how worried I was for you? How scared I am? What do I care if our ancestors did something horrible to them?” She paused and pushed him away. “I don’t care about the past. I want to know that we have a future. Together. You said how much there is to enjoy in life. How can I enjoy it, when we’re constantly at war? When I could lose everything from one moment to the next? When I could lose you?”
He held her close again, struggling to find an answer. All his knowledge, all his philosophy, melted away, leaving behind the naked truth: there was an enemy who wished them dead at any cost. And until they defeated them or died trying, neither he nor Moirah could have the peace they craved. Not even the Lady could help them find the solution that eluded him.
He did not relish what came next, and wished Moirah’s father had returned to guide them, tell them what to do. He now had to inform Two-horns and the
Council of the approaching war. A war they could easily avoid, even now, by sacrificing the Iota.
She leaned her head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. “About that other thing,” she said. “Children. Does it bother you?”
He turned his face away. “Less now that I’ve met our daughter.”
She ran her finger through his hair. “Then promise me you’ll keep her safe.”
“I’ll die before I let anything happen to her,” he vowed, meaning every word.
“Even if it means giving in to the Old Woman?” she insisted.
He slid off the bed to prepare for the meeting, saying nothing.
Malekshei
David
The eight of them stared into the fire pit, its flames sending hypnotic shadows to chase each other on the walls. David had been startled by the arrival of Tie to Malekshei. He had relished the opportunity to repay her past kindness in kind, even convincing Two-horns to allow her into the Council. Two-horns did not share his enthusiasm, but had grudgingly accepted her, too, after the shaman’s reassurance that this was the Lady’s will. The strange little girl sitting down facing the fire and her anxious father, lurking in the shadows behind them, made this the most unusual Council meeting David had ever attended.
When Lehmor described the events at the Old Woman’s, it was obvious that Two-horns no longer knew what to think.
David cast an enquiring glance around him. Lehmor was staring at his feet, a look of shame on his face. Moirah was fidgeting, torn between love of her husband and her faith. Two-horns was scratching his beard and yawning, a clear sign of his nervousness. Tie was examining the room, arms and legs crossed. David could sense her discomfort at her new surroundings, and had thought to invite her to the meeting in an effort to make her feel welcome. He might have invited Sam as well, but the young Guardian spoke no First. This all meant that David had to take the initiative. He cleared his throat and their eyes rose to meet his, except for the shaman, who had his closed, and looked half-asleep – although David knew better.
Pearseus Bundle: The Complete Pearseus Sci-fi/Fantasy Series Page 51