Tulkhan leaned his head against the wall and looked up to the star-dusted sky. Their patterns were different this far south, but he had grown to know them as he traveled through Fair Isle. This was his island now and he would endure. His son was born of this land, half Ghebite, half T’En. He was the future.
With his finger encased in the firm grasp of his son, Tulkhan felt the bitter kernel of distrust, which had tainted his life for so many moons, dissolve. As it slipped from him he realized its nature and its source. Reothe had planted that self-doubt and distrust. But now it was gone and the world was his for the taking.
Imoshen made her way gingerly to the fire circle. Her feet were tender and she was still bruised and torn from the birth. When the General returned the baby, she accepted him carefully. Her breasts were tender. She had nothing in reserve for healing herself.
She just wanted to sit and hold her son. It was amazing how good it felt to hug his little body to her. Warmth from the fire seeped through her. She was tired beyond thought.
Traveling the foothills with the baby had been a test of endurance. She had hardly dared let herself stop, for fear of falling asleep and being recaptured.
It was so good to be safe at last. Through almost-closed lids, she watched Tulkhan leave the campfire to confer with his fortress commander. She had sensed something different about the General when he returned the baby to her. Tulkhan was lighter of spirit, more confident. She didn’t know why, but she was relieved.
The familiar rumble of the Ghebite language hung on the air. There was something about the tone of the Generals voice that she found very comforting.
“Imoshen?”
She looked up, startled. Had she dozed off?
Tulkhan offered his hand, indicating to her to stand.
“Can’t we just sit?”
He sank onto his haunches with the ease of a man used to living rough. “The men are nervous, Imoshen. According to Ghebite custom a woman is unclean while she makes milk for the babe. Ordinarily no man but a woman’s husband would see her for two small moons after the birth and even he would not touch her.” He gave an apologetic cough. “You unsettle them.”
She snorted. “Anyone would think they birthed and raised themselves!”
Tulkhan grinned. “So it may seem to you. But these men are simple soldiers. They find it hard to think differently from the way they were raised.”
“You are a soldier, yet you can see things differently,” she told him.
He nodded reluctantly, then with a shrug he continued. “As first son of the second wife, I have been on the outside looking in for many years.” He looked up, a rueful smile lighting his eyes.
Imoshen felt a tug of recognition. She too knew what it was like to be an outcast.
Tulkhan seemed to recollect himself. “To make matters worse, they fear attack. They know you turned Jacolm and Cariah to stone and they fear the same or worse from the rebel leader. Can you tell me how Reothe will strike?”
“I can’t help you. I could try to scry but Reothe would know and block me, his skills are so much greater than mine.”
His disappointment was palpable.
“I am sorry, General.” Regret made Imoshen abrupt. She put her free hand on his clasped hands. “This is my gift.”
She brushed his knuckles, meaning to draw on the force of his own will to heal his abrasion, because she was exhausted. Strangely, she didn’t have to. The food and rest must have restored her.
He lifted his hand, turning it over, flexing the fingers as he made a fist. The skin was healed perfectly.
“In time of peace it is a good gift,” she told him. “But not much help at present.”
“Not true.” He squeezed her hand. “We may have great need of you afterwards.”
Imoshen nodded, unable to bring herself to tell him that, even if Reothe allowed them an “afterwards,” she doubted she had the strength to heal more than the mildest of wounds.
His knuckles brushed her cheek. “Don’t let yourself worry.”
It was a gentle gesture and it almost undid her. All of a sudden weariness overtook her and she fell asleep sitting up, too tired to move.
Chapter Eighteen
A scream split the air, a terrible, keening note of pure terror. Imoshen pushed her hair from her eyes and straggled to sit up, her bruised body aching. All around her, men sprang up, groggy with sleep but with weapons to hand.
Tulkhan hurried around the fire to her, pulling her to her feet. She gasped as the myriad little cuts on her swollen feet split open.
“Up there, take cover.” He pushed her toward the tower.
She hugged the baby to her chest. “Give me a knife. Reothe’s people took mine.”
He glanced into her face, startled. Imoshen cursed. Did he think she was some useless Ghebite female?
Several more screams cut the air, rising above the frantic shouts of the men.
Wordlessly Tulkhan dragged his own knife from its sheath and handed it to her.
Imoshen grasped it in one hand, then turned to dart away.
“Imoshen?”
Tulkhan’s tone stopped her.
His face worked with emotion. “You came to warn me, thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I probably led them here and provided the impetus for the attack.”
“I don’t care.”
He took one step to cover the space between them and caught the back of her head in his free hand. His lips found hers in a bruising kiss. It made her heart leap. Her body recognized it for what it was.
A declaration.
She returned it with all the fervor of her long-contained passion. Tears stung her eyes. Tulkhan might take his death wound this night. She might never have a chance to hold him again. So much was against them. Yet at this moment she knew he was hers, body and soul. Fierce joy filled her. If they lived through this night she would take him in her arms and love him with every fiber of her body.
He broke first. The desire in his eyes warmed her to the core.
“Later,” he promised. “If there is a later.”
“There will be. There has to be!”
Then he was gone.
Imoshen climbed the ladder then pulled it up after her. There were no doors or windows on the ground floor of the tower, the fortress’s last point of defense. On the next floor there were no shutters to draw across its narrow windows, no door. She scurried up the curved stairs to the floor above. Here there was no roof.
Heart pounding as the screams rose to a crescendo, she made a nest in the darkest corner and, using strips of old material, quickly cleaned the baby, then rigged a sling to tie him to her chest.
Her hands flew, but her mind moved faster. How many rebels were attacking? Which point in the half-completed fortifications had they chosen to force? What were they doing to cause those terrible screams? She knew the sounds of physical pain, this was more. This was agony of the soul.
The sweat of fear clung to her skin. No longer registering the pain of the cuts on her feet, Imoshen prepared to fight for her life and the life of her son.
She crept to a window. A pall of smoke hung over the campfires. Her nostrils stung and the back of her throat burned. This was no ordinary smoke. By the fell light the features of the men twisted in leers and grimaces of mindless terror. Some had fallen to the ground, foaming at the mouth, while others ran about slashing wildly at nothing. In their mad attacks they knocked their own men to the ground. A few simply stood and screamed.
Fear for Tulkhan made her tremble. She could see rebels forging over the ramparts, slitting throats methodically as they moved forward. Their helpless victims fell, spilling their blood on the ground. As it hit the soil the blood steamed, adding to the thick mist. It was mist, not smoke.
The Ancients!
What evil pact had Reothe offered them to overpower the fortress? Opening her T’En senses she searched for Reothe, but instead she found the Parakletos. Beautiful in their full T’En battle armor, they st
rode insubstantial but irresistible amidst the slaughter. Some knelt beside the dying waiting for them to gasp their last, others wrenched the dying’s souls away even as they fought for life.
Sickened, Imoshen shuddered. Terror stole her breath from her chest and pinned her feet to the floor. Reothe had said the Parakletos held no power in this world. Somehow he had opened a path for them and laid a feast before them.
Imoshen dry-retched. Tears blurred her vision. Gasping, she blinked to clear her sight. Tulkhan’s True-men had no defenses against the Parakletos. They appeared aware of the danger but blinded so that they did not see the rebels amidst them. Where was Tulkhan?
She identified him below her, staggering toward the base of the tower. He fell to his knees, vulnerable.
Desperate, she ran down the spiral stairs, shoved the ladder out of the floor ground, and scurried down. Tulkhan was on his knees, his head in his hands, his body hunched and shaking. She knelt next to him.
Cupping the General’s head in her hands she searched his unseeing eyes. What was wrong? Then she smelt it on the mists—an overpowering terror. It stole her breath, her very sanity. But no. It was not real.
“It’s not real!” she hissed. “It’s an illusion!” But it wasn’t. The Parakletos were real and waiting greedily to claim a man’s soul. The rebels were killing for the Parakletos.
Imoshen grabbed two handfuls of Tulkhan’s hair. She jerked on his head. The pain made him focus on her. Dragging in a deep breath, she blew into his mouth to drive out the poisonous mists which made him susceptible.
He pulled away from her, coughing. “Imoshen?”
Coming to her feet, she hauled him upright. “The rebels are amongst us. Your men are dying where they stand without lifting a blade.”
Stunned, he looked around, then cursed and bellowed an order at the nearest man, who writhed on the ground unaware.
“He can’t hear you. The mist has clouded their minds.”
“Then we are lost unless you can reverse it.” He spun to face her.
Imoshen shook her head. She could not do it. There were too many of them. Even if she could, they’d be killed before she had brought enough of them back to make a stand. The nearest Parakletos paused as he crouched over a dying man. T’En eyes that had seen too much horror met hers. Imoshen looked away, unable to meet his gaze.
Nearby another Parakletos wept as she watched a man die. Her eyes widened as if she recognized Imoshen, and she lifted a hand in supplication. It came to Imoshen that not all the Parakletos were cold and cruel, but they were bound by their ancient oath and tonight they served Reothe.
“Imoshen!” Tulkhan pulled her around to face him.
She dragged in a shaky breath. “You must find Reothe. Strike him down and all his work is destroyed.”
Tulkhan balked as she pushed him toward the walls. “But if he can do this, how can I hope to defeat him?”
“This power will drain him. He’ll be defenseless. Go after him and I’ll do what I can here.”
Imoshen moved off, not bothering to see if he would follow her advice. She searched for the fortress’s commander.
She would bring him back first. Between them maybe they could stem the tide.
Tulkhan turned in time to see one of his men fall from the gate tower, his throat slit. Furious, he scrambled up the ladder and struck down the rebel responsible. The man fell, landing across the body of the Ghebite. Their blood mingled on the ground, steaming, bubbling.
Someone leapt on Tulkhan’s back. Instinct took over. He threw the attacker over his shoulder, breaking the man’s neck before his feet hit the boards. Something unseen took the man’s weight from Tulkhan’s arms.
Despite his unwillingness to witness what a True-man should not, Tulkhan took one last look into the fortress compound where rebels were already opening the gate. So much for their defenses. Tulkhan’s lookouts had succumbed without giving a warning, and the rebels had been able to bring their ladders right up to the walls. The gate swung open. Rebels charged inside to slaughter the defenders, who were preoccupied with their terrible, dark visions.
Three men stood at Imoshen’s side. Tulkhan fought the urge to go to her aid. He had to kill Reothe. He climbed down the ladder outside the fortress wall. Where was the Dhamfeer? A glowing cleft in the rock wall to the south of the pass caught his eye. The rebel leader was sheltering in a narrow, dead-end ravine, working his evil sorcery.
He ran, his feet flying over the uneven ground past a cluster of wiry mountain ponies which whickered nervously. Three rebels drew their weapons as he approached the glowing cleft. Behind them, bathed in unnatural light, Reothe knelt in a trance. Imoshen had been right. Reothe was vulnerable now.
The first bodyguard charged Tulkhan, sword raised. The General deflected the attack and went for his knife, but remembered too late that Imoshen had it. He grappled with the rebel, using the man’s body to shield him from the other two. Furious with himself, Tulkhan caught the man’s hand and turned his own knife back on him, throwing the rebel at the second attacker. The third darted in. There was no time for finesse. Tulkhan parried the blow, stepped inside his guard, and elbowed him in the throat, leaving him gasping his last.
The second rebel struggled free of his companion, ready to attack. It was a woman.
Tulkhan hesitated. She didn’t.
She leapt forward, driving up with her weapon. He staggered back, blocking awkwardly. The uneven ground betrayed him and he went down with her on top of him. Before she could turn her blade to strike, he broke her neck. Casting her body aside, he came to his feet.
The element of surprise was gone, along with the eldritch glow. Reothe had woken from his trance, though he still seemed disoriented as he fumbled to draw his sword. His movements growing sure, he lifted the sword’s point.
“She sent you, didn’t she?” Reothe said, beckoning with his free hand.
“Are you really here this time?” Tulkhan slashed and was delighted to feel the impact of metal on metal as Reothe blocked.
The T’En warrior’s free hand surged forward, bringing a slender knife into play. Tulkhan sprang back warily, circling his opponent. Reothe matched him step for step, a long, slender sword in one hand and a short knife in the other.
It was the T’En style of swordplay. Tulkhan regretted not testing Imoshen’s skill to learn more about this technique. Though the slender sword was less able to deflect the slashing blows of his own sword, it had extra length and amazing maneuverability.
“She’s playing a double game, Ghebite. Don’t you realize it doesn’t matter which of us lives? She will have it all in the end.”
Tulkhan ignored Reothe’s taunts.
He wished he had a cloak to wrap ‘round his free hand or cast over Reothe to put that short dagger out of commission. He knew he could break through Reothe’s defense, but not without risking the dagger.
“I took your son, you know, stole him before he was born—”
In that instant as Tulkhan tried to make sense of this, Reothe charged.
Instinct helped the General deflect the sword—his blade skidded up the shaft to strike the pummel—but he could do nothing about the knife. Twisting his body, he avoided the blow under his ribs to his heart, and took a wound in the abdomen instead.
Tulkhan’s free hand closed over the knife’s grip.
Reothe smiled and stepped back.
The General staggered, trying to keep his guard up. He knew that if this wound wasn’t treated very soon he would bleed to death.
His hands and legs tingled. One knee gave way but he did not drop his guard.
“You are too much trouble to kill outright. I would like to stay here till you die, and watch the Parakletos take your soul, but I have to go. My people need me.” Reothe studied Tulkhan’s face from a safe distance, his expression strangely intent. “You can die knowing you did well, Mere-man. But you had no hope of winning.”
He straightened and strode off.
Tulkhan shif
ted. A sharp jab of pain made him gasp. If he pulled out the blade or tried to move, it would speed up the bleeding. He could not stay here to die.
He blinked tears of pain from his eyes. The blood of the three defenders soaked the soil but there was no mist. Whatever dark sorcery Reothe had been working, it had faded when Tulkhan had distracted him.
Imoshen!
Even if she had turned the tide with the rebels, Reothe himself was coining for her. Tulkhan felt the stain of failure. Yet Reothe had said she would win no matter which of them lived. Then he heard Imoshen’s voice assuring him that Reothe could tell the truth and make it sound like a lie, or a lie sound like the truth?
Tulkhan’s vision blurred. He had to move. He couldn’t.
He should have been there at her side to face Reothe. Despair, more painful than the knife’s blade, scorched him.
* * *
Imoshen knew the moment Tulkhan confronted Reothe because the mist suddenly vanished, and with it the Parakletos. Once free of the mist’s effects, the Ghebites had formed a solid core of resistance, their training coming to the fore. When the commander had asked for Tulkhan she had explained he had gone to defeat Reothe. But Tulkhan had not returned and Imoshen hid her dread.
Despite the disparity of numbers, the Ghebites held the rebels at bay. The battle could go either way. At that instant Imoshen looked up to see Reothe ride through the gate. The dawn breeze lifted his silver hair as he looked down on the struggle.
She knew as soon as the Ghebites saw him they would lose heart. If only it had been Tulkhan.
Darting forward, she pulled the commander back from the fray, pointing. “General Tulkhan has returned.”
The commander’s gaze followed her gesture and he saw what she willed him to see. He gave the Ghebite war cry. His men echoed it, calling Tulkhan’s name and attacking with renewed vigor. The rebels faltered.
Imoshen looked up at Reothe. Even from this distance she could tell he was furious. She could almost feel the air between them crackle. Her breath caught in her throat.
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