by Watson Davis
The archer let an arrow fly. It struck Shiyk’yath in the shoulder.
Shiyk’yath dropped the dagger, gasping in pain, and he fell to one knee. His left arm hung limp at his side; his right hand grasped the arrow’s shaft.
“Move again, shit-for-brains, and my next arrow pierces your eye!” the archer shouted, another arrow already nocked and ready to fly.
“Kill him,” the harpy said. “I will carry his stinking head.”
Her hands still free, Sifa grabbed the tendril plugged into the swordsman’s skull, pinched off the focal node, and split it apart. The tendril exploded into black motes of wriggling worms that fell to the ground and disappeared.
The swordsman rolled off of Sifa onto his hands and knees and tore the helmet from his head, casting it aside. He vomited black goo into the leaves, heaving and upchucking several times, more and more of the vile mess expelled each time. The wriggling worms in the goo evaporated into the ground.
“What did that bitch do to you?” The archer’s bow shifted from Shiyk’yath to Sifa.
“Kill them both,” the harpy said, landing once more behind the archer.
“No, wait.” The swordsman pushed himself to his feet, blinking his eyes and shaking his head. He held his hand out toward the archer, saying, “By Maegrith’s spiky beard, I understand now. They’re right. I see it. All this shit we do, it’s all a big mistake.”
“The bitch put a spell on you!” The archer stepped back, his aim and his bow shifting to the swordsman. “Shake it off or I’m going to have to end our friendship.”
Shiyk’yath rose to his feet, grinning. “Yeah, she put a spell on him. A spell of Truth. She’s erased the lies from his mind.”
The swordsman spread his hands, holding his palms out with no weapon. “We’ve worked together for years. We’ve taken children from their parents and handed them over to the priests.”
“So we escorted children with magic to the monasteries, so what?” the archer said, his arrow aimed at the swordsman. “Where else are they supposed to receive training? From hedge wizards?”
“Kill him, too!” the harpy shouted, rising into the air.
“Those who passed their tests received training and became priests, yes,” the swordsman said, nodding his head and walking toward the archer. “But those who didn’t pass died. Remember? We were there, remember? They were sacrificed.”
“What are you saying?” The archer lowered his bow, his brow furrowing, his eyes shifting right and left, confusion on his face.
“And do you remember your first wife?” the swordsman said. “Dyon’ai? Beautiful woman. But she died giving birth. Remember?”
“Do not listen to him!” The harpy dove past the archer and landed by the dagger, snatching it from the ground.
“Dyon’ai?” The archer dropped his bow and pressed his hands against his temples.
Sifa stepped forward, her hands raised. ”I can help you remember. Just let me—”
“No!” the archer screamed, whipping his sword from the scabbard on his hip, swinging it at Sifa’s head. “Shut up!”
The edge cut through Sifa’s hood, biting into her horn. The impact knocked her to the ground, and she yelped, raising her hands to her head to protect herself.
Shiyk’yath rushed toward the archer, grabbing his sword arm, only to be flipped over and thrown to the ground. The archer stomped down on the arrow in Shiyk’yath’s shoulder and Shiyk’yath screamed in agony. The archer raised his sword, preparing to behead him.
Sifa leapt to her feet and charged in with her head down. She slammed into the archer’s side, pitching him into the air. She lost her balance and rammed into a tree, ripping off part of the trunk and falling to her hands and knees in the leaves.
The archer landed on his feet, clutching his side, scowling at Sifa. “Fine, heads it is.”
“Yes,” the harpy said from where she crouched, holding the dagger out toward them.
“Listen to me,” the swordsman said, wiping the black goo from his lips. “These two are not our enemies.”
The harpy hurled herself forward and drove the dagger into the base of the swordsman’s skull. The man fell, and lay quivering on the ground.
“No!” The archer lunged, lashing out with his sword at the harpy. “He’s my best friend!”
She cackled, vaulted over the archer’s head, slashing down across his forehead. “I never liked you, anyway.”
The archer dropped his sword and shook his head, blinking his eyes, staggering. He touched his wound with his fingertips. Dark tendrils radiated out and the wound turned purple and then green. He scratched at it, harder and harder, peeling back rotting layers of flesh, exposing the bone beneath. He collapsed to his knees, and then toppled to the ground, dead.
The harpy turned toward Shiyk’yath and Sifa and hissed.
The wind grew stronger, tugging at Sifa’s hood, at her cloak, the whole forest growing darker as an ominous cloud formed above. Sifa’s heart pounded with fear.
“Run!” Shiyk’yath charged past Sifa, howling, his left arm hanging limp.
The harpy chuckled and gathered herself up, preparing to stab Shiyk’yath.
Sifa threw out her hand and yelled, “No!”
A bolt of lightning ripped through the air from the dark clouds above, the boom deafening, an incandescent column of power striking the earth, striking the harpy.
The impact of the bolt knocked Sifa and Shiyk’yath down. Wind swirled in, picking up the leaves. And then it was gone, and the harpy crashed to the smoldering ground, her body now a blackened husk.
Shiyk’yath crawled up to Sifa, his mouth moving, his words seeming to come from miles away, her ears still ringing with the fury of the blast. She rolled over onto her knees, panting for breath.
“Hey?” Shiyk’yath patted her back, the arrow still in his shoulder, leaves in his disheveled hair. “Can you warn me to get further away before you do that next time?”
Sifa shook her head. “I don’t even know what that was.”
“That was lightning,” Shiyk’yath said. “And you summoned it.”
DYUH MON EASED THE chair back onto its back legs and folded his hands over his tummy. He shoved the pouch with his oracle bones back into his belt and put his boots up on the desk, kicking papers and books aside.
The door to the rector’s office opened and a man charged in, heavy-set and with an elitist’s sneer on his lips. The man stared at Dyuh Mon for a heartbeat, his mouth quivering with fear, but he dropped his eyes and inclined his head. “Librarian.”
“You know, I hate your town, rector,” Dyuh Mon said. “Too many memories, some good, mostly bad.”
“I apologize, your grace,” Lunan said, dipping his head once more but averting his eyes.
“Not your fault and I’ll try not to hold it against you,” Dyuh Mon said, waving his hand as though brushing the memories aside. “Take me to this Bang’la or Ka-bes or whatever her name is. I have many questions for her.”
“I’m not—” Lunan gulped and licked his lips. “She is not here, your grace.”
“Ah,” Dyuh Mon said, letting the chair’s front legs fall to the floor with an audible crack that made Lunan wince. “Not here? How is that possible? You were told to detain her, were you not?”
“Yes, I was, your grace.” Lunan bowed. “But I did not get word from the Empress quickly enough. I sent out people to retrieve her, but she was already gone, nowhere to be found.”
“Nowhere to be found?” Dyuh Mon leaned his forearms onto the desktop. “You informed Her of this immediately?”
“Um.” Lunan took a deep breath and shook his head in the negative. “I knew you would be here soon, your grace, and I thought it best—”
“You thought death would be quicker and less painful by my hand than Hers?” Dyuh Mon nodded, a grin spreading across his face. “You may not be so stupid after all, for She will be very angry and your death will be slow and agonizing.”
“I did not wish to bother th
e Empress with a minor triviality like my sister,” Lunan said, raising his head and stepping toward Dyuh Mon, imploring him, begging him. “I did not know of her importance. By the time word reached me to arrest her, she had already left Tuth-yoo. She bought a small sailing boat. We have the man who sold it to her in custody. He didn’t know where she was going.”
“Perhaps if you had notified the Empress sooner that your sister had returned,” Dyuh Mon said, picking up the quill pen and letting drops of ink splatter on the desk’s top, “then She could have given you more timely direction.”
Lunan’s shoulders slumped and his chin dropped to his chest, his whole body wilting. “Yes, your grace.”
Dyuh Mon threw the quill back into the inkpot. “Do you have the slightest clue where she may be headed?”
Lunan nodded. “When she entered my office, she expected to find Che-su. She was looking for Che-su.”
“Che-su?” Dyuh Mon stood and stretched, the bones in his elbows popping. “Make arrangements for your replacement.”
“My...” Lunan gulped and breathed a quivering breath. “Sir?”
“Do not worry yourself, I won’t kill you quite yet,” Dyuh Mon said. “You are coming with me to Basaliyasta.” He snorted. “Yet another place I despise.”
“Perhaps she’ll return,” Lunan said. “If so, I should remain here and inform you.”
“It is your decision,” Dyuh Mon said, shrugging. “You can come with me, or you can move along to your next life.”
“Yes,” Lunan said slowly, “I will inform my vicar.”
Basaliyasta
“IT STINKS SO BAD,” Sifa said, wrinkling her nose and grimacing. They stood on the side of the road leading into Basaliyasta through the Nightmare’s Gate.
A merchant passed in his wagon, brightly colored and painted, with a team of four horses pulling it. Sifa and Shiyk’yath joined the line behind it.
“I preferred the plan where we were going to bypass the towns and cities,” Shiyk’yath said, rubbing his bandaged shoulder, his newly shaved head glinting in the sun, the light sparkling off the sheen of his sweat. He shifted his weight to his good leg, leaning on Sifa’s shepherd’s crook and using it as a walking stick. “But you want to enter Basaliyasta of all places? Maybe we could head to Nayengim next.”
“My father is in there,” Sifa said, stepping out into the street, easing herself into the traffic of people heading into the city, her hand holding Shiyk’yath’s elbow. “Somewhere.”
“How can you be sure of that?” Shiyk’yath shook his head and allowed her to drag him forward. “Because you’ve got a feeling in your heart?”
“My feelings have been right before and I trust them,” Sifa said, guiding Shiyk’yath along behind the merchant’s wagon as it creaked forward, glaring at Shiyk’yath. “In here, I can feel the woman who raised me over there, at sea, and I can feel my father, who is in pain and agony, and has been since as far back as I remember. If you’re lucky, one day I might feel you in here too.”
“Yeah, well, just walking in past guards who’ve probably been shown our likenesses and told to take us to the central temple for murdering a priest might not be the best way to get to whatever in the Nine Hells that’s calling out to you,” Shiyk’yath said, pitching his voice low. He scratched at his chin, glaring back behind them at the line of people now following them. “And what are we going to do once we get in there? Follow the pain in your heart through the streets and alleys?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m going to do,” Sifa said, inching forward. “I don’t care what you do. You can go back to Ofo as far as I’m concerned.”
“Oh, no.” Shiyk’yath hobbled forward, pushing Sifa before him.
Her necklace flashed.
Shiyk’yath gulped with a silly smile on his face, and he shrugged. “Sorry, sir. We were just having a family squabble.” Shiyk’yath wrinkled his nose and rolled his eyes. “She’s very hard-headed and opinionated. Gets it from her mother.”
Sifa gasped, glanced at the soldier looming to her side, just beside the great stone Nightmare’s Gate of Basaliyasta, and she bowed her head, lifting her hood up and murmuring, “Your pardon.”
“Hold up and let me take a look at you.” The guard, a pot-bellied man with the green dragon embroidered on his tabard, chuckled and shook a wooden square he held in his right hand. He glared at it and then turned to a guard behind him. “Something’s wrong with my wanted list.”
The other guard extracted a wooden square from a pouch around his neck, looked at it, shook it, and shrugged. “Mine’s out, too.”
The first guard turned to Shiyk’yath and Sifa and pursed his lips. “What’s your business in our fair city, then?”
Shiyk’yath said, “Ah.”
“Come for healing,” Sifa said, keeping her head bowed.
“Yeah,” Shiyk’yath said. “Got my ankle messed up, and then hurt my shoulder.”
The guard stared at Shiyk’yath’s waist. “Is that a drow blade?”
Shiyk’yath stared down at the dagger tucked in his sash. “Could be. Been in my family for a few generations now.”
“Well, you two don’t look dangerous.” He motioned them through the gate, gesturing to the next people to move forward.
Shiyk’yath and Sifa scurried through the gate.
A statue of the Empress stood in the middle of a semi-circular plaza with four streets exiting from it, one street to either side of the gate along the inside edge of the wall, and two more streets leading off with a temple right before them, and to their left, a fountain and steps leading up to a garden.
Shiyk’yath leaned down and whispered, “You can let go of my damned arm now.”
“Oh?” Sifa released her grip and shook her hand. “I didn’t realize.” She poked Shiyk’yath in the chest. “But what was that you said back at the gate? I am not hard-headed.”
“Of course you’re not,” Shiyk’yath said, chuckling and patting her on her head, “but I was just playing a part, acting a role so they’d let us in without questioning us too hard.” He looked around, grinning. “Looks like it worked!”
“Well,” Sifa said, crossing her arms over her chest. “That was still a mean thing to say.”
Sifa marched forward with her head down, her lips pressed together. Shiyk’yath doddered along beside her, whistling an off-key tune out of rhythm with the beat of Sifa’s crook. Sifa followed the street before her, leading past the temple to the right.
Shiyk’yath stopped whistling and asked, “Do you have any idea where you’re going?”
Sifa stopped and pointed down the street, a street lined with shops of all kinds on the ground floor, the buildings three to five stories high with apartments above. Clothes hung out on lines from the windows, and many of the windows had pots hanging over the side with flowers and herbs growing inside. Wagons and horses clattered down the smooth stone street inclined with runnels leading to drains. Women in bright skirts and patterned bandannas carried pots and boxes on their heads, and men banded together to carry huge amphorae dangling from poles by their handles. Children played all around, running in and around their feet, throwing balls and catching them.
“That way, kinda,” she said.
A little boy ran up to them, his skin crusty with grime, his black hair shiny and stringy but oddly well combed. He bowed. “May I be of assistance?”
“Get away, kid,” Shiyk’yath said, shooing the boy. “Do we look like we need assistance?”
“Yes!” The boy laughed, a cute laugh with his hands covering his mouth. He bowed once more. “You are new here, no? You need a guide. I am Ba-fanks. I can take you exactly where you want to go, I can tell you the story of every building in Basaliyasta since the Empress drove Gal-nya out and even the times before that! I can take you to the best and cheapest shops in Basaliyasta, to shopkeepers who will not cheat you, unlike these snakes who prey on newcomers.”
“I said go away, you little brat,” Shiyk’yath said, raising his hand
as if he were going to smack him, his face pinched and angry, his brow furrowed, but then he swatted a fly off his nose, shaking his head.
Ba-fanks darted behind Sifa.
“Hey, leave him alone,” Sifa said, pushing Shiyk’yath away and putting her arm across the boy’s chest, glaring at Shiyk’yath. “He’s just a little guy trying to survive.”
“Yeah,” Shiyk’yath said, leaning on the shepherd’s crook and putting his fist on his hip, his eyes closing to dark slits, his lips pursed. “He’s going to try to make his ends meet by taking all our money. The little kid’s a beggar and a thief.” He shook his head and swatted a fly from his hair.
“Well? You were a beggar just a few days ago,” Sifa said, sneering at Shiyk’yath.
Ba-fanks pressed his palms together and bowed, a pained expression on his face. “A quarter spirit, just a quarter spirit, and I’ll show you all the best places in all of the city, places most people never go and never see, all the sights worth seeing, all the tastes worth tasting, all the music worth hearing.”
Sifa nodded. “Give him a quarter spirit.”
“I am not giving him—” Shiyk’yath’s eyes went wide. The people around them dropped to their knees and he put his hand on Sifa’s shoulder, forcing her down. “Get down.”
“What are you—?” Sifa wriggled her shoulders, trying to dislodge his hand, fighting against him, but then over Shiyk’yath’s shoulder she saw three priests and a priestess—Rector Tolyo—striding down the street from the door to the temple on the plaza, waving their arms as they spoke to each other. She dropped to her knees between Ba-fanks and Shiyk’yath, and prayed Rector Tolyo would not look their way.
DYUH MON STRUTTED UP the main street leading from the harbor to the center of the city. Lunan scrabbled behind him, and the citizens and slaves of Basaliyasta moved aside, parting before him, falling to their knees and bowing as he passed.
Lunan asked, “Shouldn’t we send for a carriage, sir?”
Dyuh Mon waved his hand. “It is refreshing to be among the common folk.”