The Dark Defiles

by Richard K. Morgan

  She brandished her knives again. “You want a piece of me? Come on!”

  They dropped lithely to the boulevard paving not ten yards from where she was, reared a little on their hind limbs and then circled out, moving to bracket her. Talons scraped on the stonework as they prowled. Eyes gleamed iridescent in the gloom, watched her with a narrow intelligence, better protected than those of the peons, recessed into bony, slanting sockets behind rows of spines—a tough throw for Bandgleam, and not one she wanted to risk just y—

  Hurried rattle of talons on paving to her left—the shrill, attacking shriek.

  She felt the nape of her neck chill to the sound—old, partly healed memories from the war, reopened like wounds—spin to face it, see the scribble of motion as the lizard came at her, and her flesh cringed.

  But corpse-cold recall mapped the creature’s weak points for her—get this right, Archidi—the way she’d have to move. Up on the balls of her feet, swiveling, already in motion as the reptile pounced the last three yards, she was not there, she was here, motherfucker, right here, spinning in from the side and strike with Wraithslayer, hard into the soft, unarmored flesh behind the lizard’s reaching forelimb. The attack shriek scaled to an abrupt peak, dropped off a cliff into a furious hiss as the lizard coiled round with whiplash speed, jaws snapping and seeking.

  But Archeth knew better than to stay still behind the blow.

  She left Wraithslayer buried to the hilt where it was; Quarterless was already drawn to replace it. Didn’t feel like she’d actually reached for the knife at all—as if Quarterless had leapt eagerly from the sheath in the small of her back as her fingertips trailed past, as if it had flown to the warm calloused wrap of her palm like Ishgrim into her embrace at day’s end. The blade was reversed and she had time to carve a long gouge in the lizard’s haunch and tail root as she spun away. She already knew the other lizard was there at her back. Bandgleam was tugging her around, insisting, yearning toward the fresh target and—

  For one panic-stricken moment something shivered and failed in her, the close combat press of what was happening rushed her, stormed her senses and battered them down; she felt abruptly like some Ninth tribe martyr, splayed and tied between four snorting, stamping stallions under a pitiless southern sun, limbs tugged and torn outward by forces beyond any control or power she had to resist …

  It is a meditative, communing state, the Warhelm had told her. Common enough among the People, but perhaps you, Archeth Indamaninarmal, with your admixture of human blood, will not be able to raise sufficient discipline to—

  Fuck that shit.

  She let go, stopped trying to control the knives as individual blades, became the fulcrum on which they turned. She let herself see each blade’s arc of potential, let the arcs unwind and encircle her like white-hot wire, let herself know at the deepest, clearest level of her being what could and could not be done with the gift Tharalanagharst had given her. Plotted the intersection of the attacking Scaled Folk with those glowing wires the same casual way she might note the shift in the pouring arc of a water jug and bring a cup into place beneath—

  She hunched and went with Bandgleam’s tugging. She spun about. The warrior caste lizard towered over her, talons poised—close enough to gag on the acrid spice of its skin secretions, close as a mother reaching to lift a squalling infant from the ground. It shrilled at her and struck, one downward flailing forelimb, but Quarterless was there, upflung and angled, took the taloned blow, deflected it the scant inches that Archeth needed, sent the force on downward. And Bandgleam leapt glinting into the gap—through the shadow of the lizard’s stumbling as Archeth straightened out from under the failed attack and stabbed deep, plunged the blade into the reptile’s exposed underbelly, slicing upward, opening like a surgeon, spilling viscera, blood, paler fluids, half-formed eggs from the reproductive canal …

  The lizard screamed and flailed and went down thrashing in its own entrails.

  Archeth was already turning away.

  BUT THESE KNIVES ARE INERT, ARCHETH INDAMANINARMAL. TRACE OF something that might have been disbelief in the Warhelm’s voice. The steel is still sleeping. How have you not awakened them? How do you fight with them like this?

  I stab things or I fucking throw them. A bit defensive—she cleared her throat and started again. I was instructed in Hanal Keth from ten years old.

  Yes, but Hanal Keth is only the beginning. It is a threshold skill, the dexterity training for what comes after. Were you not told this?

  Brief quiet, in which she silently cursed her father’s people and their slipshod ways. Well, what do you think?

  I think there is much work to be done, neglected daughter of Flaradnam, and not very much time to do it in. I cannot gift you with a mastery of Salgra Keth, that would take many years. Time we do not have.

  Salgra Keth? She repeated the phrase, puzzled. Hanal Keth made sense enough in High Kir—it meant, more or less, the Art of the Blade. But Salgra Keth, that would have to mean … she shook her head … well, let’s see, it was an antique word, but …

  Art of the … Juggler? Art of the court conjuror?

  Art of the cheap street entertainer?

  She shook her head impatiently. You’re not making any sense. I’ve never even heard of this Salgra Keth.

  No, so it seems. She thought the Warhelm sounded obscurely disappointed. And as I said, there simply is no time. But the blades have at least seeped into you somewhat, and this does give me hope.

  Another silence.

  Seeped? she asked guardedly.

  WRAITHSLAYER WAS CALLING HER—LIKE A SOFT ACHE IN THE PALM OF HER hand, where the hilt of the knife longed to be. The lizard she’d buried the blade in stalked her, limping slightly on the forelimb where the knife had gone home. Thin rivulets of blood down the scaled skin, droplets across the ancient paving, but it seemed otherwise unharmed and pretty pissed off. The jaws gaped, the thick tongue coiled behind a thicket of fangs, its tip darted delicately out and tasted the air for her. The deeply recessed, iridescent eyes watched her for an opening.

  More motion on the rubble piles above.

  Archeth caught it from the corner of her eye, saw the wounded lizard turn its gleaming gaze just fractionally away. She chopped a glance that way herself, saw reptile peons prowling, three, maybe four of them, all seeking ledges from which to spring. She circled casually out, back toward the center of the boulevard and the boil of the main fight. The warrior caste lizard reared back on powerfully haunched hind limbs, tilted its spined head toward the ruins, and shrilled violently. The sound seemed to shred the air. Perhaps there was language in there, perhaps not—in all the years of the war, no one had ever been sure how evolved these creatures were, how much conscious thought dwelled behind the gleam in those iridescent eyes, how they communicated—but the reptile peons responded like troops to command. They came spilling down off the rubble, four of them—yeah, it was four after all—and they rushed her.

  ALL KIRIATH WEAPONS CARRY AN ESSENCE, FORGED INTO THEM AT THE deepest levels. A soul, if you want to use terms your barbarian friend would understand. With time, that essence begins to put down roots in the weapon’s user, and to borrow selfhood from them. A bond is grown, one transferred particle at a time. Weapon and user grow closer together, better able to cooperate. Locational awareness, predictive sympathetic resonance … Exasperation crept into the Warhelm’s avuncular tone. Did your father really not inform you of any of this?

  I already fucking told you he didn’t. Get on with it.

  Very well. The knives you were gifted with are powerful and have bonded deeply with you over time. I could not otherwise have found them so easily on the seabed. Whoever forged these blades certainly intended you to make use of their full potential.

  She remembered her practice sessions with Grashgal in the courtyard at An-Monal. The phantoms he conjured from the empty air for her to hack and slash at—blank-faced insubstantial gray figures like the ghosts of so many tailor’s mannequin
s, but armed with a variety of fearsome weapons and growling faintly. More than enough to strike instinctive terror in her ten-year-old heart.

  These cannot harm you, Archidi, Grashgal had promised her. But you need to feel as if they could. You need to fight as if your life were in the balance. Because one day it probably will be.

  SHE PUT BANDGLEAM THROUGH THE LEAD REPTILE PEON’S EYE, A LONG overhand throw that dropped the creature tumbling and thrashing in the path of the others. The next peon stumbled, fell slithering on top of its stricken comrade, jaws snapping reflexively as the two lizards’ limbs tangled and snagged. The injured reptile bit back in response, blindly, and the two creatures locked up in a writhing, snarling mass. Standard charge break technique from the war years—worked on reptile peons most of the time, they just weren’t that smart. But—

  The other two lizards made it past. Awful predator grace in motion, as they swerved symmetrically either side of the fight in their path, swerved back again to home in on where she stood.

  It barely slowed either of them down.

  Laughing Girl came out, left-handed to replace Bandgleam, and Falling Angel still in her boot was a soft-pressing reassurance against her calf but meant she had only one safe throw left, so let’s make it count here, Archidi—

  The peon on the right was fractionally ahead when it leapt. She hurled herself sideways, put its body between her and the other lizard, saw the pale unarmored flash of throat offered, flung Quarterless underhand. Fuck, she flubbed it—the knife went home but with less than full force, pinned inch-deep in the pale flesh and flapped, then fell out again. No time, no time, the lizard was cornering on its haunches from the failed pounce, was relocating its prey, was on her. Falling Angel jumped out of her boot and into her right hand, distracting slash with Laughing Girl in her left and then hurl your full weight in against the reptile and stab, frantically, into that throat. See what damage you can do at this range, shall we? The lizard shrilled and flailed back at her. She felt talons get through her leathers and rip furrows in her flesh. She screamed, and then, voice unlocked, went on screaming, counterpoint to the lizard shriek—“Indamaninarmal! My father’s house!”—all the time hacking, stabbing, work those wounds in the throat, find an artery in there somewhere …

  The lizard fell on her. The other peon leapt fully onto its companion, clambered over and tried to bite Archeth’s face off. She heaved back out of the way, spared a single, ill-aimed slash with Laughing Girl, and cut a gash in the underside of the thing’s jaw. But the first lizard’s weight had pinned her in place. The one that was trying to bite her slithered farther over, wove its head about trying to get closer. If she didn’t …

  There—the eye!

  “My father’s house!” Sobbed out as she buried Laughing Girl deep in the offered eye socket. The knife sank in up to the hilt, the lizard screamed, almost like a human infant—reared back, ripped the hilt of Laughing Girl out of her grasp. Some impulse she had no time to question—she flung her empty hand up and out, and there was Quarterless, somehow up off the detritus-strewn boulevard paving and into the instinctive curl of her palm, reversed. She—

  Something tore the remaining reptile peon off her. Archeth had a confused impression of chain link slicing down through the gloom, wrapping around the snout and jaws, a hooting scream that sounded like joy, and then the lizard was gone, as if swept away by the wind. She hinged up from the stomach, suddenly freed of the crushing weight, saw the Dragonbane with one boot on the injured peon, flailing down at its skull with the chain.

  Behind him—shit!

  The warrior caste lizard had taken a shortcut to sorting out the first two squabbling reptile peons. It had pounced and knocked the two creatures apart, then bitten the injured peon’s throat out. Was crouched there now, bloody fanged, over the twitching remains, shrilling instruction at the survivor as it picked itself up.

  “Eg! Watch your back!”

  The warrior caste lizard’s long head snapped up, the iridescent eyes fixed on her. Almost as if she saw the decision it made then, heard its actual thoughts. It was coming for her, right fucking now, to put an end to this ridiculous soft two-legged thing that its peons couldn’t quite seem to kill …

  Her own decision was taken for her as fast. She never knew if it was her or the knives, or some incomprehensible combination of both.

  Her arms came up in unison, Quarterless and Falling Angel cocked without thought for the throw. Fuck are you doing, Archidi? It felt as if each arm tugged into place with no volition on her part at all. The warrior caste lizard took one poised pace forward, and she threw, hard, thick grunt of effort all the way up from the hinging tension of the muscles in her stomach where she still lay on her back, impossible precision, right past the bristling array of protective spines and bone ridges, and both the iridescent eyes were suddenly gone, put out like embers, the blunt, use-worn butts of the knives sprouting in their place.

  The lizard crashed forward on its long snout in the dust.

  Archeth curled to her feet like an echo of the motion that had flung the knives. Egar was still turning away from the dead reptile peon, gore-clotted chain swinging from his clenched right fist, ready to face the remaining peon, but she was closer. No idea what she was doing at all, she stalked forward, crouched with arms spread out and both hands splayed like claws, lips peeled back from teeth, eyes somehow blind, what the fuck are you doing, Archidi, you’re not even armed …

  At less than three yards’ distance, she screamed in the last lizard’s face.

  The reptile peon scrabbled backward in a tangle of limbs, coiled about, and fled. Back up onto the mountainous piles of shattered masonry, leaping ledge to ledge and then gone, into some bolt-hole or other amid the rubble. She breathed in hard. Straightened up and sniffed.

  The boulevard behind her had quietened, and she knew without turning—some old battle instinct unfolding for her like a creased and stained campaign map—that the skirmish was done.

  Egar reached her side, panting. Stared up after the reptile peon.

  “Where’d that come from?” he asked.

  She jerked a nod. “Up there, same as the rest of them. Must be a nest.”

  “Yeah—wasn’t really talking about the lizards, Archidi. Talking about you.” He got his breathing down. “What you just did there, big battle scream and no fucking knife. Where’d that come from?”

  “Oh.” She shrugged, feeling oddly embarrassed. “Lot on my mind, you know. Guess it had to come out.”

  “Uh—yeah. Well, you want to try keeping a blade in your hand next time? As a personal favor to your sworn bodyguard here, I mean?”

  She coughed a laugh, winced as sharp pain flared across her ribs. Sudden recollection of the claw wounds she’d collected in the tangle with the peons. She lifted her arm on that side, put her hand to the site of the pain, and brought it away liberally smeared with her own blood.

  “Fucker tagged me,” she said with mild surprise.

  “Let me look.” The Dragonbane came around and peered, prodded a couple of times, enough to make her flinch and curse. “Yeah, you’ll live. Couple of nasty scratches is all, looks like the leathers took most of the sting out of it. Get you sewn up, just soon as we take stock of this fucking mess, all right?”

  “All right.” She said it absently, staring around at the lizards she’d killed.

  Listening to the soft calling of her knives.

  CHAPTER 32

  hey got Anasharal up through the forward hatch with a lot of grunting and cursing but no real difficulty, then Rakan had the block and tackle moved down the deck and they dragged the Helmsman to where Ringil stood waiting. None of the men really wanted to touch the iron carapace, or get within reaching distance of the crablike legs folded into its underside, so there was an awkward delicacy to the whole operation that took longer than would have been strictly necessary with some other cargo. Ringil said nothing about it. He waited patiently until the Helmsman was upended at his feet and the ropes re
moved. He waved back the men, saw how they hung about at a short distance, Rakan included, watching in silent fascination to see what might happen next between the dark mage and the iron-imprisoned demon at his feet.

  “Hello there, Anasharal,” he said.

  “Good day to you, too, Eskiath.” If the Helmsman felt at any disadvantage, it wasn’t letting it show. “Not wearing your much-vaunted Kiriath steel this morning, I see.”

  “Don’t need it right now.” Ringil went pointedly to the opened gangway section and peered over the edge. “Do you know how deep the ocean is around here?”

  “Helmsman is a poor substitute for the High Kir word it purports to translate. I am not some ship’s pilot. No, I do not know how deep this ocean is.”

  “Nor do I,” admitted Gil amiably. “But I’m told it goes down at least a mile. More in some places.”

  “How interesting.”

  He came back to the Helmsman and put one booted foot on the edge of its upended carapace, rocked its weight judiciously back and forth a couple of times on the iron curve where it touched the deck. His voice hardened.

  “You want to go have a look? Find out firsthand?”

  “Do you think you’re threatening me, Eskiath?” Amusement, trickling in the edge-of-hysterical avuncular tones.

  Ringil shrugged. “I’m not sure. The pearl divers in Hanliagh told me once that the deeper you go in the ocean, the harder it presses on you. It hurts your ears, apparently. Maybe it’ll hurt you, too, a mile down. Maybe it’ll crack you open like a nut. Spill out whatever essence is locked up inside all that metal.”