Return of the Exile l-3

by Mary H. Herbert

  Easier said than done.

  Linsha swung her axe up with both hands and just barely blocked a powerful swing by Malawaitha that would have removed her arm if it had connected. The shock jarred down her bones. Malawaitha grinned with malice and switched the handle to her left hand and swung again. Linsha ducked out of the way and landed a kick on the Tarmak’s ribs. Breathing heavily, she danced out of Malawaitha’s reach while her foe gasped for air. Linsha did not give her a moment to regain her strength. Malawaitha was too well trained with the battle axe. She knew how to hold the intricately carved brass handle that could slip so easily in a sweaty grip. From years of practice she understood the weight of the blade and how to use it to its greatest advantages. She knew the best way to use the butt end of the handle to smash it into Linsha’s nose or eye or mouth. With her longer reach and greater strength, she swung the weapon with bloody efficiency and skill. Linsha’s only hope was to stay out of the way of the blade and try to wear Malawaitha down before her own strength waned or this berserker flame in her body died.

  With a wild shout, Linsha leaped again at Malawaitha. Her foot lashed out and deflected the axe far enough for her to knock the young Tarmak’s feet out from under her and send her crashing to the ground. She swung her blade toward her enemy’s head.

  Malawaitha twisted out of the way and made a swipe at her ankles that forced Linsha to leap away. In that moment Malawaitha catapulted to her feet and faced Linsha again.

  The crowd cheered wildly.

  Linsha saw the pleasure in Malawaitha’s eyes, saw the sneer of confidence that she would soon be the victor. Her anger rose to new heights that seared away almost every sense but her sight. She felt no pain from aching muscles, or the bangs and bruises on her arms and legs, or the shallow slash on her abdomen, or the tingling of the blue paint on her skin. She did not taste the blood that trickled over her lip or hear the crude shouts from the spectators. All she saw, all she wanted to see, was her opponent. She noticed how the sweat glistened on Malawaitha’s face, and blood from a deep graze on her shoulder gleamed red against the blue paint. Her eyes followed the Tarmak’s every movement, every shift of her dark eyes, every twitch of her face.

  They traded blows again, their blue bodies struggling back and forth across the stone paving. Their axes clashed viciously, blade against blade or blade against handle. Soon they both bled freely from lacerations on their arms and upper bodies. Linsha’s cheek and eye swelled from a hard blow from Malawaitha’s elbow, and the young Tarmak limped from a battered knee cap.

  This can’t last much longer, Linsha’s inner thought told her. Although she couldn’t feel the fatigue yet, she could see her muscles trembling with the effort of movement. Malawaitha, too, was struggling for breath and for balance, and she was less accurate in her attack.

  Linsha bared her teeth. Gods, she loathed this woman. Malawaitha was the figurehead of everything she hated about the Tarmak-the arrogance and tyranny, the bloody-minded stubbornness that kept her trapped here, and the malice that meant only harm to herself and her friends.

  Why-

  Linsha swung her axe.

  — doesn’t-

  She swung again, bringing the blade down hard on Malawaitha’s in time to the words that pounded in her head.

  — she-

  The axes crashed, sending a shock down Linsha’s arms.

  — just-

  She gritted her teeth and struck again.

  — fall!

  The blades clashed together a fifth time and Linsha felt the blades lock. The handle slipped in her weakening grasp. The blade deflected off her foe’s axe and slid sideways in her sweating palm. The unexpected twist threw her off balance, and she staggered and fell against Malawaitha’s arm. Her axe slid from her aching hand and crashed to the stones.

  The Tarmak woman staggered sideways under Linsha’s weight and lost her hold on her own weapon. Seeking an advantage, she managed to snatch Linsha’s hair and drag her down with her. The two women landed side by side on the ground.

  All at once Linsha felt an arm snake around her neck and she found herself pinned in a death grip with Malawaitha’s arm locked across her throat. She felt the Tarmak’s embrace tighten around her like iron bands. She tried to breath and realized she could not draw in a breath. Her throat was being crushed beneath Malawaitha’s powerful forearm and her head was immobilized.

  Malawaitha’s breath blew hot on her ear. “I will kill you slowly with my hands,” she hissed in Tarmakian.

  Linsha could not reply. Pain registered in her mind, screaming in her neck and back and lungs. Blood pounded in her head and behind her eyes. Panic clawed at the rage that still fired her mind. Her hands tore at Malawaitha’s arm, but she might as well try to tear out stone. Her vision blackened as her eyes strained again the mounting pain and pressure in her head. Her feet kicked, trying to connect against Malawaitha’s shins or knees or feet. It was all of little use. The implacable pressure on her throat continued to crush the life out of her.

  Then her fingers touched a familiar hard disk hanging at her neck. The chain was caught under the Tarmak’s arm, but the two dragon scales lay free on her chest. Linsha snatched them. She knew from touch which was which. Lord Bight had edged the bronze scale with a thin rim of gold. However, Iyesta’s scale had been given on the spur of the moment and there had been no time since to match the rim. The brass scale was hard as metal, thin as a disk, and sharp enough to do damage. Linsha’s fingers angled it and slashed the curved edge down Malawaitha’s forearm. The Tarmak made a gasping noise, but she did not scream or loosen her grip. Her strength ebbing, Linsha tried again. Desperately she slashed Malawaitha’s arm a second, a third, a fourth time. She could tell the scale was cutting deeply into the woman’s arm, because she shuddered each time and her blood ran down warm and slippery onto Linsha’s chest. Yet still she clung tenaciously to Linsha’s throat.

  There was no air left in Linsha’s lungs. Her mind was shutting down; her head throbbed. Frantic now, she summoned the last tatters of her waning strength and hacked the dragon scale against the back of Malawaitha’s wrist. Something gave beneath the edge of the scale.

  A sound somewhere between a gasp and a choked-off scream burst in her ear, and the Tarmak’s arm slid off just enough for Linsha to gasp for air. Her throat hurt abominably and her air passage felt pressed flat, but a thin stream of air slid out of her aching lungs and blessed fresh breath flowed in. She gasped again and coughed. Malawaitha shifted under her, and the woman’s uninjured arm moved as she sought to get another grip around Linsha’s neck. The terror of being pinned again shot a burst of energy through Linsha’s flagging muscles. She lifted her head as high as she could manage and brought it down hard on Malawaitha’s face. Pain shot through her head, but she guessed from Malawaitha’s cry that it was not as bad as the damage done to her enemy.

  Taken by surprise, Malawaitha had taken the full brunt of Linsha’s head blow on her nose. Groaning, she clapped a hand to her injured face. Linsha rolled off and scrambling to her hands and knees, she sought for an axe. The Tarmak scrabbled away from her, blood streaming down her broken nose and pouring from her arm. They both saw the closest axe at the same time.

  Both women lunged for the weapon. Malawaitha’s longer arm reached the axe a fraction of a second sooner, but Linsha’s hand swerved in mid reach, bunched into a fist, and smashed a powerful upper cut into Malawaitha’s broken nose. Blood splattered them both. The Tarmak sagged over the axe, stunned by the blow.

  Trembling with the effort, Linsha lunged after the second axe, crawled to her feet and stood over Malawaitha, the axe dangling in her hand. The tonic Afec had given her still sizzled in her brain, but the red killing lust had gone, leaving only regret and a deep sadness at the waste of all of this. She stared down at Malawaitha through a sparkle of tears and listened to the crowd around her scream for blood. They wanted a death; it didn’t seem to matter whose.

  “Live or die?” she offered in Tarmakian so soft
ly only Malawaitha could hear her.

  For a long moment there was no answer. The young Tarmak lay face down on the stones, wheezing for air and bleeding profusely. Overhead, lightning flared in the clouds that now covered the sky. Linsha could hear the thunder rumble over the voices of the spectators.

  Malawaitha moved. Slowly she pushed herself to her knees to face Linsha and hefted the axe. “I will never share Lanther with a human,” she spat through the blood in her mouth.

  “Lanther betrayed you,” Linsha replied sadly. “If you had helped me instead of fought me, you wouldn’t have had to share him with anyone.” Then, knowing there was no other way to end this duel, she slammed Malawaitha’s axe out of the way and brought her own weapon around in a swift arc that sliced into the woman’s neck and sent her head dropping to the ground.

  The body stayed upright, swaying gently a moment, before it toppled forward and lay still on the stone paving. Linsha threw her axe to the ground. She stood still in the center of the watching Tarmaks and lifted her eyes to Lanther. The first few drops of rain splattered on the stones around her.

  7

  Urudwek’s Funeral

  Lightning cracked in the sky over the palace, and thunder rumbled into the hills, but the Tarmaks paid little attention to the approaching storm. They watched as Malawaitha’s body collapsed to the stones. Without a moment’s hesitation to regret her death or mourn her passing, they burst into a wild chorus of warcries, vociferous shouts, and a spate of appreciative applause. The dead woman had failed and was gone. The victor had fought well, with surprising ferocity, and had won her position as the Chosen of the Akkad-Dar. The Emperor rose from his golden throne. He nodded once to Linsha, shouted a command to his people, then moved ponderously into the palace followed by his slaves and the Empress. The Tarmaks shouted with pleasure, and every man and woman carried their goblets, plates, clothing items, musical instruments, and in some cases each other up the stairs and into the large audience hall. Slaves brought the tables, the benches, the lamps, and the wine. The feast, it appeared, was moving indoors.

  Linsha did not move. She stood by Malawaitha’s body and stared down at the corpse, her face expressionless. It was all she could do to stay upright.

  Afec was the first to reach her through the streams of people moving up the stairs. He touched her arm and looked worriedly into the stormy green eyes that turned to look at him.

  “What did you put in that drink?” she demanded.

  He looked slightly embarrassed. “I may have given you a larger dose than you needed. In the rush of the moment, I did not take into account your smaller stature.”

  Lanther joined them. His blue eyes sparkled with pleasure and pride as he slipped his blue robe over her shoulders and hustled her toward the stairs.

  She was too tired to argue. The only thing keeping her on her feet was Afec’s tonic. She had a feeling that when it wore off, she would collapse like a sail in a dead calm. Just once she glanced back and saw Afec kneeling by Malawaitha’s body, his head bowed, while slaves collected her head and gathered her body to be carried off. At that moment, the rain dropped out of the sky in a deluge of pouring water, and Lanther pushed her inside the large double doors of the audience hall.

  She hoped he would take her back to the Akeelawasee where she could lie down, have a long drink of water, and have her injuries attended to. The swelling on her left eye was getting so bad she could barely see through the puffy flesh, her throat hurt, and the laceration on her stomach stung like fury under the blue paint.

  “We’re going this way,” he said, pushing her in a different direction, away from the festivities.

  “Lanther, please,” she contested. “I’ve had enough.”

  “We’re going to see the dragon egg.”

  He would tell her nothing more in spite of her protests and questions until they had walked through several long corridors and stopped in front of a door.

  Linsha fell silent and studied the entrance. While many of the other doors in the palace were lightweight barriers of red-colored woods carved with geometric patterns, this door was massive, dark, stained with age, and decorated only with two iron straps added to the door for strength. Two of the emperor’s guards stood on either side of the door like ponderous statues and looked neither left nor right.

  She glanced at Lanther through her one good eye, hut he held his finger to his lips and shook his head. She became aware then that they were not alone with the guards. Other Tarmak warriors were coming silently down the hall carrying torches. They formed a line behind the Akkad-Dar and waited patiently, although for what Linsha had no idea. She hoped they were not here for the dragon egg, for that thought made her very uncomfortable. No good could come of Tarmaks and dragon eggs together. But surely Lanther wouldn’t let any harm come to the egg. He had promised them to her. She had fought for them.

  A drumbeat, slow and measured, echoed down the corridor, and the warriors moved quickly to either wall. Clasping their hands in front of them, they bowed low as a procession moved majestically along the hallway toward the gathered warriors. Linsha expected to see the Emperor in front, but as the long line of Keena priests, warriors, and attendants came into her view, the first thing she saw was the casket from the ship’s hold carried on the shoulders of six burly warriors. Beside her, Lanther bowed low.

  Linsha’s battered face darkened into a frown of anger. She knew who was in that coffin-Urudwek, the Akkad-Ur, the previous general of the Tarmak armies and the man who had led the invasion of the Missing City, ordered the massacre of the Wadi camp, and murdered her friend, Mariana. The Tarmak should be consigned to the darkest depths of the Abyss, not brought home in honor for some ridiculous burial ceremony.

  Lanther grabbed her wrist and pulled her over into a bow. “Do it or they will kill you,” he said in no uncertain terms.

  Although her hands clenched into fists and her stomach was tied in knots of anger, Linsha bowed low as the two guards pulled open the massive door and the casket was carried ceremoniously past her into the lighted passage beyond. The priests and attendants followed, and behind them walked the Emperor and his guards. The huge Tarmak inclined his head to Lanther. The Akkad-Dar, keeping a tight grip on Linsha’s arm, fell in behind the Emperor and behind him came the remaining warriors.

  The procession moved in time to the beat of a drum-slowly, reverently-along the corridor and down a long flight of stairs to a lower level beneath the palace. From there, they continued downward on another flight of steps that spiraled deeper and deeper below the lowest levels of the building into the native stone of the promontory itself.

  Linsha tried to pay attention to where they were going. She was a trained spy and a Solamnic Knight of the highest order who should have been making mental notes and absorbing everything she could see of this new experience. But she was feeling lucky just to stay on her feet as she trudged down the never-ending stairs after Lanther. Her body ached from an unbroken chain of knocks, scrapes, cuts, bruises, and sore muscles from head to foot. That horrible tonic still rumbled in her stomach and fizzed in her head, and the smell of the blue paint and Malawaitha’s blood on her chest made her nauseous. Worse, the smoke and dancing light from the torches left her dizzy and lightheaded. She prayed they would reach the end of the stairs before she fainted or vomited. She wasn’t sure which might happen first.

  Thankfully the procession came to the last of the stairs before she lost control of her head or her stomach. They proceeded along a gently sloping course through abroad corridor. The darkness was intense, broken only by the torches carried by the priests and warriors.

  Linsha lifted her head and sniffed the air. There was something very reminiscent about this place-a smell, a feeling, a touch of cold, dank air that reminded her of the maze under the Missing City or the caverns under Sanction. She guessed they were in an underground complex in the heart of the promontory. Was this where the Tarmaks buried their honored dead? Were there tombs down here? She groaned and r
ubbed her throbbing temples.

  She plodded onward behind Lanther, concentrating on keeping her feet moving and her body upright. She could hear the Tarmaks talking softly around her, but she paid little heed to what they said. It was too much effort to translate the guttural Tarmakian. They could be talking about the latest crop harvests for all she cared.

  “Linsha,” Lanther said quietly. “Look ahead.”

  Through her open eye she saw a flickering light curving around a large arched entrance at the end of the passageway. The light was yellowish and danced like firelight. In fact, Linsha realized, there was an odor of smoke on the breeze that wafted up from the archway. Her curiosity stirred. She looked around as the procession walked down the last length of corridor and passed through the archway into the lighted cavern. Linsha’s interest took a sudden leap. They had entered a large, natural cave with a high ceiling and smooth walls. To Linsha, it looked like a sea cave carved out by water, and she wondered how close this place was to the harbor. A stone walkway extended around the walls of the cavern for perhaps twenty feet in either direction before dropping down a long curved ramp to the cavern floor. Torches sat in brackets every few feet along the cave wall, and a row of imperial guards stood stiffly at attention along the gallery wall that overlooked the cavern.

  Linsha eyed them curiously and was about to ask Lanther a question about tombs when she caught a familiar sound. Over the sonorous beat of the drum, the shuffling of feet on stone, and the hushed voices of the warriors, she thought she heard the faint sound of something massive breathing. It was an unmistakable sound once she knew what to listen for-the slight brush of scales rubbing together, the bellows-like rush of air through a long neck, the rustle of leathery wings. A dragon! Linsha had spent enough time in the company of Crucible to be able identify his breathing in total darkness. This was not Crucible’s inhalation. Whose was it? She broke away from Lanther, pushed herself between two massive guards and peered over the edge of the wall into the cavern below.