The Dark Defiles

by Richard K. Morgan

  At her back, her horse tossed its head and stamped. Clink and jingle of harness iron.

  “Be glad to get moving myself,” she said.

  His face fell a little. “Yes, if you could just … mention to the Emperor that this is, well, not the best of postings for a man of my years and experience. I’d be grateful.”

  “Rest assured, I shall. Your assistance has been indispensable, my lord Han. Jhiral will hear of it, you have my word.”

  “Yes.” He didn’t look as if he really believed her. He cleared his throat, hurried on. “Quite a handsome force there, anyway. No one could say you return to Yhelteth empty-handed.”

  And another hundred join us downriver at Broken Arrow ford, if Marnak’s word is good.

  In the wake of Poltar’s death and her own sudden fame as the spirit of Ulna Wolfbane returned—or whatever—there’d been a queue of young Skaranak men out the embassy door, eager to sign up in her service and ride south to see the Empire. Marnak weeded out the flaky ones for her and the hopelessly underaged, saw to it that the rest understood what they were embarking upon, and then swore loud blood allegiance with her himself, just to seal the agreement tight. They would now, he assured her, fight and, if necessary, die in her train as if she were Skaranak born.

  Three hundred-odd steppe nomad freebooter cavalry.

  It was hardly the riches and plunder the quest had promised, hardly a return in triumph. But in time of war and need, it was perhaps not an inconsiderable gift to bring home.

  At any rate, it would have to do. Let Jhiral bitch and moan.

  She made the clasp with Han once more, murmured formula farewells and good wishes. Then she swung up onto her horse and nudged it around to face south. Kanan Shent and the other Eternals formed up without word on her flanks. Somewhat less handily, the marines wheeled their mounts to follow. She nodded once more at the legate, leaned and clucked gently to her horse, trotted it steadily out along the road.

  As she passed the lined ranks of Skaranak to left and right, each man thumped fist to chest and bowed his head.

  And then followed on behind.

  MARNAK AGREED TO RIDE WITH HER AS FAR AS THE FORD. HE’D SEE TO THE new men when they arrived, ensure that they integrated smoothly into the existing ranks. It was a couple of days over easy ground, and he could do with the time away. Ershal and the shaman’s deaths were too recent, his own involvement too close. His friendship with Ulna Returned notwithstanding, things were a little tense around the encampment right now, and it wasn’t helped by the rumor that with Ershal gone, some of the herd-owners in council wanted to put him forward for the Mastery.

  “Don’t fucking want it,” he rumbled. “And if I stay away, maybe they’ll take the hint.”

  She grinned. “Or you’ll go back and find yourself already crowned. Leadership stalks you, Ironbrow. Told you, you ought to run south with me while you’ve got the chance.”

  “And I told you I’m done fighting other men’s wars. That’s an idiot youngster’s game.”

  He’d refused her offer of a new imperial commission and command, repeatedly, but you could tell more than half of him would have loved to go. He rode mostly in silence, peeling off now and then to see to some minor matter of discipline up and down the Skaranak ranks, but when he did speak to her, it was all reminiscence about his time in the south. Dissection of battles they’d both seen against the Scaled Folk, some kind words about her father, tales of adventure and near-death, much of it undertaken at the Dragonbane’s side.

  She found talking about Egar and Flaradnam ached a lot less than she’d expected. The past was losing its power to hurt her. There was too much eagerness in her for the future.

  Ishgrim—you are going to get such a fucking when I walk through that door.

  A few hours into the journey, in one of Marnak’s disciplinary absences, Yilmar Kaptal rode level with her.

  “My lady?”

  She glanced sideways at him. The bandages were off his hands now, but his left eye and upper face were still swathed and hidden from view. She tried not to remember what he’d looked like when he first staggered upright on the steppe and called out to her. Flesh scorched and melted away at the wraith’s embrace, one cheekbone protruding like a beam end from some torched shack, the eye above gone to bloodied, sightless jelly. Ears eaten back to nubs, hands reduced to blackened, skeletal claws, patches of bluish pale bone showing through. One cheek had been eaten back to the jaw and the teeth grinned at her in the gap. His throat was melted open down to the rib cage, pipes and gore laid bare inside.

  She saw furtive silver spidering down in that mess and looked hastily away. Saw the scorched raw corpse of the horse he’d been riding

  You’re still alive? she’d blurted at him.

  Evidently. Though he didn’t sound too sure. His voice hissed and bubbled in his ruined throat, and the look in his one intact eye was desperate. You must cover my wounds. They must not see me like this. Please.

  She did her best. Cut lengths of cloth, the softest she could find, from Ershal’s shirt and breeches, in the end had to use the sleeves from her own blouse, too. Wrapped his hands, thinking sickly of the times she’d seen digits scorched by dragon venom that had healed together into fused, crippled paws from such hopeless treatment. She bound up his head, covered it all but a single diagonal slit so he could see from the remaining eye.

  You saved my life, she kept saying numbly as she worked. Salgra Keth. It’s, I know now, I see it. But if you hadn’t come …

  He said nothing at all in response. Appeared to have no idea what she was talking about.

  By the time Marnak and the others found them, the gurgling in his voice had begun to ebb and he seemed capable of getting on a horse and staying there. And when Han’s surgeon back in Ishlin-ichan stripped the makeshift bandaging off the wounds, they had already shrunk to damage a strong man might survive.

  Now, less than a fortnight later, it was as if he’d had no worse than a rookie’s run-in with the desert sun in Demlarashan. Some peeled pink flesh, some ugly spotting.

  “Feeling better?” she asked him tonelessly.

  “Much. But I really must question your wisdom, my lady, in bringing along that variegated sellsword rabble.”

  He gestured back over his shoulder with one pinkly peeling hand. She turned in the saddle, looked back at the men he was talking about.

  “There’s a war on, my lord … Kaptal.” Or whoever you really are. “They have all proven themselves capable, they’ve fought and died alongside our own men. Should I turn them away then, on the last leg of our journey home?”

  Kaptal sniffed. “It is a matter of trust. They are not imperials. Tand’s men have no loyalty to anything other than coin, and the rest are drawn from the ranks of our present enemy.”

  “They’re pretty solidly outnumbered,” she pointed out.

  Perhaps impressed by all the talk of tribal blood allegiances and fighting loyalty from the Skaranak, fully half of Tand’s former mercenaries had undertaken to swear similar oaths in Archeth’s service, too. So, curiously, did a handful of the surviving privateers, when they understood what was going on. Wary at first, she eventually agreed. Sat solemnly through their—rather clunky compared to the Skaranak—oath giving and had the legate outfit them with horses. The unsworn remainder she cut loose to seek their fortune in Ishlin-ichan or find their own way home. Carden Han made some noises about extracting parole from the privateers, but, well—good luck with that. She found she no longer cared. So a handful of grubby, penniless pirates dribble back into League lands and choose to rejoin the fray on the side of their homeland.

  Had they not earned the right?

  Have we not all earned the right, the simple right to go home?

  Those of us who still can.

  Kaptal hung stubbornly at her side, spoiling her mood. “It is not what they will do now that I fear, my lady. It is the risk their future implies.”

  “There’s a risk in everyone’s future, Ka
ptal. Yours and mine as well.”

  “True indeed, my lady.” The undead pimp-made-good lowered his voice, leaned closer across the space between them. “And that is something else that I would like to discuss with you, perhaps when we make camp tonight. Our Empire is adrift in uncertain times, and with this new force you have at you personal command—”

  “Enough!”

  Whiplash swift, she had him by the arm. She yanked him closer still, almost out of his saddle. Looked hard into his healing face, put on a smile for any audience they might have, kept her voice to a corrosive hiss. “I don’t know who’s really in there, you or Tharalanangharst, but this is for both of you. We have already had our one and only chat about insurrection. I will not jeopardize what my people spent centuries building, out of some misguided belief in a glorious new era of leadership. We are going home to help our Emperor end this war as swiftly and cleanly as possible, and when that is done, I will resume my role as imperial adviser at court. And that is all I will do. Is that fucking clear?”

  Kaptal looked impassively back at her out of his single eye.

  “Quite clear, my lady,” he said.

  She let him go. “Good. Now fuck off back down the line and leave me alone.”

  He fell back, and presently Marnak rode up to replace him.

  “Trouble?” the Majak asked.

  She shook her head. “Bit of a disagreement over court etiquette. No big deal. My lord Kaptal and I have different ideas about how to proceed when we get back home.”

  The Ironbrow wrinkled his nose. “The imperial court for a workplace. I don’t envy you that.”

  “Yeah, well. There’s a good chance you’re going back to be clanmaster, so don’t look so fucking smug.”

  “I told you, I have no interest in that. There are more worthwhile pursuits.” He grinned in his beard. “Do you have someone waiting for you at home?”

  “Yeah.” Ishgrim’s face came to her, brought with it the quick, hot twinge in her belly and an answering smile. “I do, actually.”

  He saw the smile. “Then you, too, know what is truly worthwhile.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  And she urged her horse into a faster trot, along the road southward and home.

  CODA

  Goin’ Home

  “Do Not Dismount While Horses Are Still in Motion”

  Public Notice

  Ynval Tea Gardens

  Kiriath Round-and-Round-About Machine

  CHAPTER 68

  he Emperor Jhiral Khimran II sat at breakfast by the window, chewing an apple down to its core and reading a death warrant. Sunlight flooded in through the bedchamber’s stained glass windows and painted him a motley of warm pastel shades. He shifted in his seat and his silk robe fell open to below the waist. The chamberlain cleared his throat, shifted uncomfortably, and averted his eyes. The Emperor looked up from the warrant, noticed.

  “Oh, come off it Yaresh. I know you haven’t got the tackle anymore, but you’ve seen the like enough times, surely.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Still looking pointedly out the window.

  Jhiral sighed, tossed the apple core back onto his breakfast table, and pulled the robe across himself with his freed hand. He gestured with the parchment.

  “You know, I hold cowardice pretty high on the list of unacceptable failings in a man. But as I understand it, this Commander Karsh only suggested a tactical withdrawal from the Hin valley, not a full retreat. And the kicking our forces got subsequently seems to suggest he might have had a point.”

  “The report was signed by Admiral Sang and General Henark both, my lord.”

  “Yes … No love lost between the Karsh and Henark clans, of course.” Jhiral brooded for a moment. “You know what? I’m commuting this. Have an order drawn up—Karsh to be, let’s see … dishonorably discharged, or broken back to the ranks if he prefers. His choice. Oh, and let’s say fifteen lashes for disobedience. That, and time served. I’ll sign it after lunch.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The Emperor tore the warrant across, doubled it, and tore it again. Handed the quarters to Yaresh, who bowed, impassive as ever. Jhiral stifled a yawn.

  “Right, that’s all. You can get out.”

  The chamberlain went. The Emperor got up and stretched. Glanced at the vast rumpled bed, the tangle-haired figure that lay there under the sheets at its center. He grinned.

  “Did you hear that? Got me in a good mood this morning.”

  No response. Jhiral’s grin curdled to a grimace. He prowled to the edge of the bed, grabbed a double handful of sheet, and yanked the covers right off the girl who lay there. Stared down at the motionless, voluptuous curves. The marks of his hands still on her flesh, dull blue and angry red. The face turned away.

  She curled into herself the faintest fraction, but otherwise didn’t move.

  “You know,” he said somberly. “I like a wench who fights back a bit, as much as the next man. The sweet, hot taste of stolen virtue and all that. But don’t push your luck with me. I can do without the sulking.”

  Still no response. Jhiral growled impatiently, grabbed an ankle, and dragged the girl brusquely toward him.

  Like a war-cat at bay, she turned on him. Slapping and screaming, kicking savagely with the leg he hadn’t gotten hold of, clawing with the lovingly manicured harem nails they’d given her. He weathered it—had worse from tutors and my own fucking sister as a boy—snagged a wrist to match the ankle, yanked her violently forward, to the edge of the bed. She went after his face with her free hand, scored furrows across his cheek. Fuck this shit. He let go the ankle, belted her backhanded in the face, full force. She yelped and recoiled. He pursed his lips, hit her again, slower and more deliberate this time, flat of his open hand across her cheek, once, twice, all right, enough. She whimpered and sagged from the grip he still had on her wrist. He took her firmly by the throat, lifted her to face him again.

  Breathing a little heavily—he mastered it before he spoke.

  “You know, I’m sorry about Kefanin. I like him well enough, for a eunuch. But the lady Archeth has given him a very exaggerated sense of his importance in the grand scheme of things. I’m afraid that’s what manumission does sometimes. Not in favor of it myself, whatever the Revelation says.”

  “He was,” forcing the words hoarsely past his clamped grip on her throat, “trying to protect me.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he was. But you see, my men had orders to get you. And they don’t take it kindly when anyone gets in their way. They have to answer to me for any failure, after all. Kefanin’s very lucky they stopped at a couple of broken bones.”

  She stared back at him, trembling. Made no attempt to prise his fingers from her throat, just stared. Split and bloodied lip, fresh tear tracks through her makeup, on top of those from last night, and looked like that cursed eye was going to bruise now, too. Looked a real state, was going to look worse.

  Not what he wanted at all.

  Jhiral sighed. Loosened his grip a little. “Listen to me, Ishgrim. You are a slave. I own you. Now suppose you start behaving like you understand that.”

  “I am … Archeth’s,” she wheezed creakily.

  “No, you were Archeth’s. My gift to her, and good luck with it. But now she’s warmed you up a little, I’m claiming you back. As is my privilege. Got a big muscly dark girl from down south to pair you with, just so you can show me some of the tricks you two got up to.” He let go of her wrist. Stroked the hair out of her eyes, thumbed the tears off her face. “I don’t want to hurt you, Ishgrim. In fact, I want you to have fun. I want you to come like a screaming bitch when that black girl sinks her mouth into you. Now—is that so bad?”

  She stared back at him, unblinking as a cobra.

  “She’ll come for me,” she husked.

  He chuckled, genuinely amused. “I seriously doubt that. Archeth’s currently several thousand miles the wrong side of the battle lines in an all-out war we’re having with your homeland. Perhaps you’ve he
ard about it.”

  He let go of her throat and turned away. Went back to the breakfast spread and scanned it, talking absently to her over his shoulder.

  “Of course, I’ll ransom her home if she’s managed not to get herself killed in the interim. She’s really far too useful not to have around, and—you may not believe this—I have a very real affection for her. But ransoming captives takes time. It can take years, Ishgrim.”

  “She will come for me. And the Dark Court will see her home. I’ve prayed for it.”

  “Yes, well you see that’s heresy.” He gave her a smile over his shoulder, to show he didn’t mean it. Picked up a slice of melon and bit into it, nodded appreciatively, talked through the mouthful. “Your dark gods are in fact petty demons, or more likely do not exist at all. In any case, no match for the power of the Revelation and the Empire.”

  He turned and winked at her.

  She crouched on the bed where he’d left her. Thighs spread—rather prettily, he thought—under her, hands in her lap, head unbent. You had to give her credit for that much, even if she was acting like some unbroken fucking village halfwit. And that loaded fruit-stall body of hers …

  Wasted on a brush muncher like Archeth, really.

  “You want some breakfast, Ishgrim? Want some fruit?”

  She shook her head vehemently. “She will come for me.”

  He sighed again. “What are you, a fucking parrot? Look, even if she does come home, and soon, you’re missing the point. The lady Archeth and I go way back. She’s been my retainer since I was born, and my family’s retainer for a couple of centuries before that. She believes in this Empire. In what it stands for. You really think she’s going throw over all of that for a casual slave fuck she’s known less than two years? Really, Ishgrim. Let it go. Come on, you want some fruit?”

  She just stared at him. He felt his temper starting to fray again.

  “All right, then … get out.” He waved her away, snapped his fingers. “Go on. Fuck off. And tell them not to send you back until that eye’s cleaned up. Look’s like we’ll be postponing our little reenactment session.”