by Sam Sykes
“But there are a hundred human nations, Shekune. And each one contains humans innumerable. They will have weapons, money, trade routes for miles, and all of them will come down on your head. You’ll turn the shicts from ghosts into prey, hunted down by the humans.”
The shicts crowed in indignation at this. She supposed the fact that they had already been pushed out of their lands eluded them.
“You’ve been tainted by their presence, kou’loho,” Shekune chuckled. “You see a few stone cities and think they can do anything. Their houses burn, same as anyone’s.”
“They burn right now,” Kataria said. “Because they fight each other. I’ve seen how little they respect the lives of their own race. They’d have none for ours.”
“Respect?” Shekune snarled, sweeping forward. So close, Kataria couldn’t help but note how tall the woman was, how easily she towered over her. “We do not want their respect. We want their blood. Every shict here has lost something to human incursion.” She thrust her spear out to point at a random shict. “You. What have you lost?”
A young male grunted, gesturing to the cloth tied around one eye. “Humans took my eye when I fought to keep them from stealing the yiji I hunted.”
“And you.” Shekune swept her spear to point at a female. “What have you lost?”
“My father died when the humans tried to burn down Shicttown,” the female replied. “I left after that and my mother would not come with me.”
“And I?” Shekune looked grimly over the crowd. “I see the empty spaces where more should be. Fathers. Mothers. Warriors and hunters.” She turned her glare toward Kataria, the fire growing behind her eyes. “What would you know of it?” She leveled her spear’s tip at Kataria. “What have the humans taken from you, kou’loho?”
Kataria stared down the weapon’s length. Its blade’s serrated teeth twisted like a metal grin, awaiting her answer.
She gave it, turning a scowl up at Shekune and slapping the weapon away.
“Given that you won’t stop fucking calling me that because of them, I’d say I know a bit about loss. And I told you already, my name is Kataria.” She stepped forward, trying to ignore how small she felt before the towering chieftain. “Tell us, then, how you plan to kill the humans? Storm their walls with bows and arrows? Break through their stone cities with spears?”
Only this statement quelled their rage. The khoshicts began to exchange murmurs, concern etching itself across their faces as they slowly became aware of just what a daunting task Shekune proposed.
Cier’Djaal was no tulwar village to be burned in a night. It was stone walls and sturdy homes. It would take strategy, cunning, and a prolonged siege to threaten even a weakened city. The realization that the shicts were ill equipped for that had to be humbling, and Kataria took no pride in bringing it.
But at the worry that suddenly flashed across Shekune’s face as she realized she was losing the crowd’s approval? At that she allowed herself a grin fit for eating shit.
“It is true,” Shekune began softly, “that we are few. Even the tulwar outnumber us.” She turned and stalked back to the center of the circle. “But is it not also true that they fear us? And why is that?”
The crowd once again turned to her attentively.
“Not because we pound at doors with battering rams, nor because we raise banners and come with war cries and shields. When we come to war, we come from the night. We enter without a word and leave nothing but silence behind us. We are everywhere, in every shadow, in every nightmare, and the blades of our enemies cannot touch us. The land hides us because we are wolves. And how do wolves fight?”
She smiled grimly and reached into a belt pouch. From it she produced a thin vial brimming with a jade-green liquid.
“They go for the throat.”
The khoshicts did not cheer at this. They said not a word. Nor did Kataria as she watched, speechless, with creeping dread about what Shekune might hold in her hand.
“In the Twelve Tribes’ war against the humans, only three have successfully pushed them out. Only three have reclaimed their lands and added the graves of thousands to them. Our cousins in the jungles of the deep south. The s’ha shict s’na.”
Everyone drew a breath at that word. And at the next, they held it.
“The greenshicts.”
No murmurs of doubt. No roars of approval. Not so much as a word was breathed among the assembled.
A typical reaction to mention of the greenshicts.
Every shict knew of the green-skinned, eight-foot-tall creatures who lurked in the jungles to the south. Just as every shict knew of their legendary distinction of being the only tribes to have driven out human incursion. And every shict knew of the viciousness and savagery that had been committed to do it.
Greenshicts did not fight for land, nor for honor. Their wars were practical. They did not kill their enemies, they exterminated them. They did not reclaim land, they burned it to ash. Their victories came only when every last enemy was dead, down to the last child and elder. And they had spent lifetimes perfecting their crafting of toxins, plagues, and diseases to cleanse the land of their foes.
Kataria was very familiar with their methods.
And her blood ran cold at the thought of what the vial in Shekune’s hand might hold.
“The greenshicts are on a mission, brothers and sisters,” the chieftain said. “A mission to spread their knowledge as to how to battle the humans. They visited us not so long ago in the lands of the Seventh Tribe and delivered me this.” She smiled at the vial as though it were a newborn child, delicate and precious. “The key to saving all of us.”
“What does it do?” Kataria asked, straining to be heard over the murmurs that rose once again. “What are you going to do with it?”
“You have a right to speak, kou’loho, but not to know.”
“And they just gave it to you? The greenshicts aren’t known for their charity. What did they want in return?”
“What I want,” Shekune snarled in reply. “What all of us want. A land free from loss, where we can look upon our children and not wonder whether they’re going to be killed because their ears are pointed. A land where we can hunt for meat to eat instead of sell. A land for us, the shicts, our people. Your people.”
“But what—”
“No, sister.” It was the first time Shekune had called her something other than kou’loho, yet the word was not spoken endearingly. “You have asked many questions. Now answer mine.” She pointed her spear at Kataria once more. “Do you see a world where humans and shicts live together?”
The question struck her like a blow to the stomach. “What?”
“Knowing what you do of humans, of shicts, do you see a world where we can live side by side, each of us free of fear and suffering?”
She wanted to say yes.
She wanted to say more than that, to speak of how much time it would take, how much suffering it would demand, how after much labor and humility the world could be remade. She wanted to tell them of a world that could exist where humans and shicts could look upon each other with something other than fear.
She could hear herself saying such words already, hear the applause they would engender, hear the begrudging agreement from Shekune that would come.
If only she knew those words.
But as the words went from her head to her lips, she felt a familiar pang in her heart. A pain she had felt long ago, when in a forest she met a young man with hair the color of an old man’s. One she had felt when that young man said he wanted to stop fighting and live with his own people. A pain she felt now when she thought of his face and his eyes and all the scars he wore.
And a different word came to her mouth.
“No.”
No applause. No begrudging approval. Not even a haughty, mocking laughter at her foolishness. The assembly had fallen silent. And Shekune’s only response was a grim, knowing nod.
And somehow, that hurt so much worse.
“When
I think of the future,” she said, “I do not see that world, either, sister. I see one where there are only humans. Or only us. And there are so many that I cannot let down.”
The Howling rose inside her head. Every shict heard her words. Every shict saw the same thing. Every shict drew the same conclusion. And their Howling was the long, loud sound of a call to hunt.
“That doesn’t mean you can do this!” Kataria said, striding forward. “They’ll still fight back! They’ll hunt you down! They’ll—”
“We have heard enough of the kou’loho. What we do now, we do for her as much as for us.” Shekune made a dismissive gesture. “Take her away.”
A few eager warriors rose from the crowd to obey, but Kwar immediately swept in to stand between them and Kataria.
“She is my…” Kwar stumbled over the word a moment. “My charge.” She reached out and seized Kataria by her arm. “I will take the kou’loho.”
“I already said,” Kataria growled, “my name is Kataria. And I already told you…” She lashed out suddenly, one hand grabbing Kwar’s belt and the other tearing free from her grip to swing and crack against the khoshict’s jaw. “NEVER TOUCH ME!”
Kwar recoiled, and the crowd recoiled with her. Kataria stood her ground, hands held closely at her sides, trembling. She watched the shock on Kwar’s face turn to hurt and then to coldness as the khoshict swept forward suddenly and smashed her fist against Kataria’s stomach.
The air left Kataria in a sudden gasp as she slumped to her knees, then to her face in the sand. She writhed in pain, drawing her knees up to her belly. The pain of the blow was fleeting, though, at least in comparison to the pain that followed.
Many hands—none of them Kwar’s—reached down and seized her by the arms. Many hands forced her hands behind her back and forced biting rawhide to gnaw at the wounded skin as they tied her wrists together. Many hands seized her and hauled her away, chased by the hateful roar of the assembly.
Kataria marched without further resistance as her captors returned her to her tent and bound her to the tent pole. She stood there for a long time before she dared to breathe and raise her left leg. She gave it a little shake and smiled at the weight that she felt inside it.
Admittedly, she hadn’t planned this. It had just been good timing that Kwar had come close enough for Kataria to covertly lift the khoshict’s knife from her belt. And it had just been good luck that none of the others had noticed her slip it into her boot as she had twisted upon the ground.
As for the idea to do it? Well, she suspected she owed Denaos the credit for that. She reminded herself to thank him once she returned to Cier’Djaal.
And she knew she had to. Not for Lenk or the humans, but for the shicts. Branded her though they had, they were still her people. Shekune’s plan would only bring down the wrath of all the humans upon them and kill every shict who breathed.
But Kwar’s father was respected. Sai-Thuwan would be able to talk to them, to tell them, to save them.
For that she had to return to Cier’Djaal. For that she had to escape. For that she had to hope that the hurt on Kwar’s face when Kataria had struck her was genuine.
She had to hope that Kwar still cared for her enough to overlook an empty scabbard.
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWO CORPSES IN ONE GRAVE
Forgive me.”
These words Dransun said in the dust-laden silence of the temple’s attic.
The first words that had been spoken since they had arrived back at Temple Row. The flight from Silktown’s gates, hauling the dead and the wounded, had been rife with screams and prayers—not words. The temple below—the pews freshly packed with the wounded—was a formless roil of agony.
And still they were too soft to drown out Dransun’s words.
Asper looked up from the cup of coffee she sat with. Dransun had yet to look up from his, even now that it had fallen from his numb fingers and spilled across the floor.
“I should have known,” he said, shaking his head. “I should have known it would end like this.”
“We both should have,” she said softly. “We could have done more.”
“I met Mejina once,” Dransun said. “At a party. Fashas invited a bunch of us common scum to their houses to pretend they gave a shit about us. I met him. When I raised my hand to salute, he cringed like he thought I was going to hit him. He looked so weak.”
Dransun stared at the coffee stain on the wooden floor, face numb with horror.
“I thought he’d fold,” he whispered. “I thought he’d make some big talk behind his dragonmen, but I thought he’d fold. But he… he…”
Asper didn’t say a word.
She didn’t say what she’d seen at the Silktown gates: Mejina’s black eyes, Mejina’s giant smile. She didn’t say that the man standing there had not been Mejina. Words like that would have shattered Dransun.
And she needed him strong tonight.
“I took an oath to serve these people. But now all I can do is watch them die,” Dransun said. “Fuck me. That can’t be all there is.”
“No,” she said. “It can’t. We can’t watch anymore.”
At this he finally looked up. At this she finally stood up.
“No more waiting,” she said. “Not on rogues, not on wizards, not on gods. We have to take matters into our own hands.” She shook her head. “In healing you separate the patient from the source of the disease. This city is sick. If we’re going to save its people…”
“We have to leave,” Dransun muttered. “After so many years here… how can I?”
“Find a way,” she said. “Tell others to find a way, too. As many as you can.”
“Where will we go?”
“Away.”
“How?”
“Fuck, Dransun, if I think on this too much, I’m going to realize how hopeless it is.” She fixed him with a hard stare. “If you can come up with a better idea, then let me know. If not, find as many people as you can who can leave this place. Either way, you’ve only got a few days.”
He opened his mouth to reply, but merely nodded. He rose and departed down the stairs to the temple proper. Aturach would be down there, tending to the wounded. He would need help soon enough.
To treat the large wounds, you have to treat the small.
This is what she told herself when she sat back down and slowly sipped her coffee. This is what she told herself when she felt a shadow loom in the chair where Dransun had just sat.
“You did not pray.”
She didn’t have to look up to know Mundas’s voice. She didn’t want to look up to know Mundas’s presence.
“Do you think things might have turned out differently had you called out to Talanas?” Mundas asked.
“Talanas was watching, same as I was,” she replied. “He saw everything I did. Whatever he chooses to do next is up to him.”
And she could feel Mundas nod slowly.
And she could feel him disappear slowly.
And she could feel herself begin to cry slowly.
No sorrow.
No fear.
No anger.
Gariath was sure these things existed, among the coils of smoke and wedged in the shattered timbers of fallen buildings, but he could not smell them. The streets of Shaab Sahaar were rife with cruder smells.
Of smoke.
Of blood.
Of charred meat.
Beneath a starless night and a moon that refused to look away, the tulwar worked. They sifted through rubble, searching for survivors and finding only scraps of people. They placed the dead upon the streets in one line, the wounded in another; a triviality before the latter became the former. The Sainites they merely heaped into two piles: one for their steel, one for their flesh.
The survivors looked scarce different from the dead. Gaunt, haunted, as though they had all been starved of thirty pounds in the few hours the attack had lasted.
Where were their voices? Gariath wondered. Where were their cries for
retribution? He would have settled for even curses, even sobbing.
Anything to let him know that there had been a purpose to all this death.
But he made his way through the streets, in silence and in shadow, toward the edge, where the houses turned from wood to clay. This area had fared better, if one was able to appreciate the fine difference between carnage and mere disaster. There were fewer bodies lying lifeless in the streets. The houses were merely scorched instead of incinerated, the worst damage being where a dead scraw had plunged through someone’s roof. The Rua Tong warriors who tended to the wounded here wore befuddlement on their faces, unsure how to use bandages instead of swords, unsure how to deal with a problem they could not kill.
Here Gariath at last caught the scent of grief, the ash that remained when anger had burned away. He followed it, the aroma growing more familiar as it drew him to the crossroads of four sandy streets.
There a tulwar knelt.
He knew it was Daaru only after he drew closer. The tulwar kneeling here looked too frail, too broken to be Daaru. His glassy eyes and mouth hung open wordlessly, suggested he was merely one more of the dead. And it was only the shallow breath he drew that showed he was not just another corpse.
But it was Daaru. Gariath knew this only when he saw the body, limp and wrapped in a purple chota, cradled in the tulwar’s arms.
Deji.
“I forgot my sword.” Daaru’s voice was numb, words little more than drool tumbling out from between his lips. “She tried to bring it to me. She…” He brushed a hand over the wound gaping in her chest: three lines in a perfect formation. “One of those monsters. I couldn’t…”
He bowed his head, unable to say anything more. Every breath he drew in was shuddering and every time he exhaled, there seemed to be less of him.
It was unfair, Gariath thought, when children were gone. They were made of their parents’ blood, born of their bodies, nurtured by their breath. When they were taken, all of that was taken with them. But even after they were gone, they seemed to keep taking.
And the parents would keep giving, forever.
Gariath closed his eyes, thought of his sons, of their faces, of their scents, of how they would have gotten along with Deji, of how old they would be right now.