Ashok spun out of the way, using the force of the maneuver to bring the chain around swinging. It cut the air with a whistle, nearly taking off Chanoch’s head. The young one ducked to avoid the blow, which drove him almost to his knees.
Ashok brought his boot down, stamping on Chanoch’s blade and forcing it into the ground. Ashok not only had the superior height, but with his weight bearing down on the sword, Chanoch couldn’t get any leverage to free his weapon.
Chanoch realized it too, and skittered back before Ashok could get in any close-range attacks. He gained his feet and stood before Ashok, weaponless but defiant.
It’s over, Ashok thought. I could take him with the chain or cut him with his own sword. The urge to finish the fight and put his enemy down was as natural to Ashok as breathing. He felt the surge in his blood and the need to satisfy it. He stood again on the Span, in the breath between life and death. But the life at stake was not his own. Not an enemy’s. Not his brother’s.
In that breath, Ashok made his decision. Instead of forcing his need into his weapon, he drew it inward. He took a breath to steady his body and channeled all the violence into a different focus. Deliberately lowering his arms to his sides, he did not move to strike. His body trembled with the effort of maintaining control, but he reveled in his success.
“Concede,” Ashok said to Chanoch. “You’re disarmed.”
“Not yet,” Chanoch said.
Ashok heard chuckles from the side of the field. “Give it up, won’t you,” Cree called out. “We want our turn. We’re getting restless.”
“And pained from the sight of Ashok taking you apart,” Skagi added, snickering.
Chanoch’s face reddened. The blood swelling just under the surface of his skin gave his face a sickly appearance. “Not yet,” he said stubbornly.
Then he did something Ashok truly wasn’t expecting. Weaponless, he came at Ashok with his bare hands.
Ashok jerked the chain up defensively, but his reaction was slow—all his focus had been on restraining himself from attacking. The young one was too close. He would peel the skin from Chanoch’s face if he completed the motion with the chain. But Chanoch was still coming at him, with fury in his eyes.
Every instinct in Ashok’s body roared that he should defend himself. He would be killed if he didn’t. His muscles trembled, but something, an impulse almost separate from his body, made him release the chain and absorb the impact as Chanoch hit him.
They went down in a cloud of dirt. Through the grit in his eyes, Ashok managed to get his hands around Chanoch’s throat. He felt the shadar-kai’s blood pulsing erratically through his veins. Of course he knew such excitement well. Ashok had felt it himself, just moments before. It was more than survival; it was the need for the kill. Feeling it, so close, Ashok found himself unable to control his own instinct for self-preservation. He let it come and squeezed, trying to break Chanoch’s windpipe.
Choking, Chanoch rolled them, slamming Ashok’s tender shoulder into the ground. Ashok gave an involuntary, strangled cry as his arm went dead. He’d fixed the dislocation himself; he hadn’t sought Tempus’s healers, and he was paying the price. He reached for Chanoch’s face with his good hand, but the young one batted it aside.
Then suddenly, Chanoch eased back. Blinking through the pain and the dirt, Ashok tried to sit up. He saw Chanoch groping to free the dagger at his belt. Ashok remembered his own dagger, but instead of going for it, he brought his knees up and kicked. His feet connected with Chanoch’s midsection. The breath whooshed out of the young man, and he fell back, his head hitting the ground with an audible crack.
Ashok scrambled to his feet, panting, waiting for the next attack, his blood pounding and his old instincts raging. He grabbed his discarded chain and wound the links around his knuckles. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. The next time he charged, the young one was dead.
But Chanoch didn’t attack again. He sat up, touching the back of his head. His fingers came away bloody. The feral excitement had left his eyes, banished by the blow to his head.
Ashok’s awareness was not so affected. He was overcome with the need to finish what he’d started. The desire to kill sang in his blood. He took a step forward. An involuntary growl ripped from his throat, but Chanoch didn’t hear and didn’t recognize the danger.
Suddenly, Vedoran stood beside Ashok. He’d come from nowhere. Ashok snarled and struck out with his chain-wrapped fist. The punch passed right through Vedoran’s insubstantial face and threw Ashok off balance. He righted himself, and when he looked again, Vedoran had come out of his wraith form. He gripped Ashok’s upper arm firmly.
“It’s over,” he said.
And it was. Across the yard, the brothers were helping Chanoch to his feet and examining his head. They were talking and laughing as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Only Vedoran had seen Ashok’s loss of control.
Ashok closed his eyes to try to clear his head. He was dizzy with the release of tension and didn’t speak for several breaths.
Finally, he looked up at Vedoran and nodded. Vedoran released him.
“My thanks,” Ashok said quietly.
Vedoran shrugged. “The battle was already over,” he said. “The young one should never have pressed his attack. You would have been justified teaching him to know his limits.”
“I would have killed him,” Ashok replied.
Vedoran said nothing.
Ashok put his chain back on his belt. He noticed for the first time that the back of his hand was covered in blood. The chain spikes had dug deep furrows into the skin around his knuckles. His inner struggle had eclipsed the pain and the fire in his shoulder.
Jamet walked across the yard toward them. He stopped to examine Chanoch, then moved on to Ashok.
“Well fought,” he said as he examined Ashok’s shoulder and the hand wounds. “You’re done for today. Go to the temple and receive Tempus’s blessing.”
“I’m fine,” Ashok said.
“You’re no use to me with a dead arm,” Jamet said briskly. He pointed to Vedoran and Skagi. “You two take their places,” he said.
Vedoran nodded to Ashok and went to spar with Skagi while Cree and Chanoch looked on.
Left alone, Ashok moved off and wandered the training yard for a time, watching the other sparring matches. The shadar-kai fought well and were far more disciplined than most he’d seen—and they were only warriors in training, the lowest rank in the hierarchy.
Ashok’s arm throbbed, reminding him where he was supposed to be. He turned and walked off the training yard before Jamet saw that he’d lingered.
He passed beyond the iron fence and came to a startling realization. It was the first time he’d been alone since he’d been captured. The shadar-kai in the training yard were absorbed in sparring, Cree and Skagi hadn’t noticed or hadn’t cared when he’d left, and Jamet hadn’t sent anyone with him to the temple.
Ashok’s thoughts hadn’t turned to escape since his adventure with the nightmare. After that first attempt, he knew they would be watching him closely, so he’d focused on learning all he could about Ikemmu and trying to divine what Uwan wanted from him. But his captors’ attention had waned, he thought. How could he take advantage of the lapse?
Ashok walked slowly, crossing the markets, which were just as bustling as they had been the previous day. He saw Gaina, hawking his colorful clothing, and gave the human a wide berth. The circuitous route took him down a quieter avenue of shops. The buildings here were older, showing only light fire damage, so Ashok could see shadows of their former beauty.
Many of the roofs had been tall and conical—a field of spherical stone to match the imposing towers. But the shapes had become tumbling and crooked. There were no doors on the older structures, only archways outlined in brick.
Ashok passed close enough to one of the shops to see strange carvings embedded in the bricks. He hesitated, tracing a finger in one that was roughly shaped like a bird. Latent heat brushe
d his fingertips, and a slight electrical shock. He took his hand away, surprised.
“Are you lost, friend?” a voice called.
Ashok looked down to see a diminutive woman step from the shop. She had bright hair stacked in thick braids on top of her head. Her angular face made her blue and white and black eyes look enormous, but they were friendly and curious as they met his.
“Come in,” she beckoned him, when Ashok didn’t reply. She spoke the shadar-kai tongue as well as if she’d been born one of the race.
Curious, Ashok followed her into the shop, which was dimly lit by candles in sconces scattered about the room. Tables covered in red and black cloths filled the floor space, and on them were racks of bottles and quills, stacks of blank parchment, wax, and seals. Ashok smelled the scent of thick ink deeply sunk into the place.
“Sit down,” the woman said, guiding him with a hand at the back of his thigh to a human-fitted chair near the counter. She didn’t seem the least intimidated by his size. “I would have invited you in sooner, but I must admit I was surprised to see you standing out there,” she said.
“Why?” Ashok asked.
The woman looked at him strangely. The corners of her eyes crinkled in amusement. “It’s just I don’t get many shadar-kai visitors here,” she said. “My clients are mostly human, dwarf, or halfling, like me.”
Ashok picked up one of the blank parchment sheets. “What is it you do here?” he asked.
“Messages,” the woman said. “We transcribe them, and a courier delivers them. The shadar-kai don’t often communicate beyond the city.” She added quickly, “That’s not to say I’m denying you, not at all. If you need to send a message …”
Ashok shook his head. “I saw the runes on your doorway,” he replied. “I was curious.”
“Ah, yes,” the woman said, smiling. “I’ve had visitors come to study them, seeking to learn Ikemmu’s history.” She gave him a quizzical look. “Are you interested in such things?”
“I don’t know,” Ashok said. He traced a fingertip across the smooth parchment stacked on the counter.
“Stop, stop!” the woman cried, uttering a startled oath in a language he didn’t recognize. She took his hand in her small one. The blood had almost dried, but the cuts on his knuckles were ugly and inflamed. “You’ve hurt yourself,” she said.
Ashok had acknowledged the continuing sting, but he hadn’t noticed the blood streaks soaking through the parchment sheets. “Forgive me,” he said.
She waved a hand. “It’s nothing,” she said. “Excuse me.” She went through another archway to an adjoining room off the shop. When she returned, she held a roll of bandages.
Ashok reached down to take them from her, but she unrolled the strips herself and wound them over his knuckles. She tied a knot beneath his fingers.
“Done,” she said.
“My thanks,” Ashok said, flexing his fingers around the bandages, making sure he could still maneuver a chain. With regret, he watched the woman remove the blood-soaked parchment sheets and put them behind the counter.
Suddenly, he remembered the soiled bandages with his blood marks on them. He could feel them; they hadn’t been lost in his escape attempt.
“What do you want for it?” he said.
The woman was rolling up the extra bandages. “What did you say?” she asked.
“The parchment,” Ashok said. “Will you trade for the parchment, quill, and ink—including what was damaged?” He spoke without thinking. He had nothing to trade her.
The woman looked at him with the same curious expression she’d used earlier. “Are you new to Ikemmu?” she asked.
He worked his jaw. It was so easy for them to see he was an outsider. “Yes,” he replied.
“Ah, I thought so,” the woman said as she held out her small hand for him to clasp. “In that case, welcome. My name is Darnae. May I know you?”
“Ashok,” Ashok said. He took the small hand in three of his fingers, marveling at her softness, like a child but with hard calluses where the quill had worn her skin.
“Well, Ashok,” Darnae said, smiling. “You may select whatever of my wares you wish. You owe me no coin.”
“Why not?” he asked, on his guard again.
“You’re in training, yes?” she replied. “You came to fight?”
To fight. That was true enough. “Yes,” he said.
“Ikemmu provides for its soldiers,” Darnae explained. “Whatever their needs, we fulfill them. A small price, most of us feel, for the security we enjoy in the city, and the opportunity to trade with so many other races, so many worlds.”
Ashok nodded, but he was remembering the confrontation between Skagi and Gaina. “I have heard … the shadar-kai here can’t do certain things for themselves,” he said.
“Yes,” Darnae agreed. “But not for lack of skill,” she added quickly, looking uncomfortable. “We understand that, as warriors, your first concern is defending Ikemmu. In a trade city such as this … How do I say it? There are many races here with a variety of needs. And there is daily drudgery, mundane tasks created when so many choose to live side by side. These things the shadar-kai were not made to do. You would fade. So the other races fill those roles.” She picked up a stack of parchment sheets, a bottle of ink, and a quill. She started to slide them into a brown leather case, but Ashok waved her off.
“There’s no need,” he said. “I’ll carry them.”
“As you wish,” she replied, handing him the items. “Do you know how to use them?” she asked tentatively.
“I know enough,” Ashok said. “How did the other races come to trade here?”
“Ikemmu is uniquely situated in the Shadowdark,” Darnae said. “We are at a crossroads between the planes. The shadar-kai protect the passage and allow outlanders to establish permanent businesses within the city. Few enclaves are so fortunate, so Ikemmu has grown and prospered.”
Ashok nodded, thinking how his own enclave would never open itself up to outsiders.
“My thanks,” he said. He stood and walked to the archway. Darnae stayed behind the counter, watching him. He paused between the candlelight and the shadows. “Has anyone ever found out what the markings mean?” he said, reaching out to skim the air over the runes. He felt the hovering electrical charge, just out of reach.
“No,” Darnae said. “But they all agree something terrible happened here, long ago.”
CHAPTER
EIGHT
ASHOK TOOK DARNAE’S PARCHMENT AND FOUND AN ABANDONED stone building near the outskirts of the market. He could hear the babble of voices in the distance, but no one came near the half-collapsed structure. The roof had sagged, forcing him to stoop when he went inside. He found a darkened corner with enough light filtering through the gaps in the stone to allow him to see clearly.
He laid the parchment out on the ground, un-stoppered the ink bottle, and took the quill awkwardly in his hand.
It would have been easier to write with his fingers, but Ashok didn’t want the stains to betray him. He worked slowly, and he ruined several of the parchment sheets; but Darnae had been generous with her gift. By the fifth sheet, he’d managed a rough sketch of the four towers, the bridges and lower city, and the wall. He copied the number of guards he’d seen on the wall from the soiled bandages to the parchment, and added notes on placement written in his own almost unintelligible shorthand.
He made other notes and observances on how often the bells tolled and their names. He listed the ranks of shadar-kai soldiers and wrote a complete physical description of Uwan.
They maintain a constant physical and magical presence on the wall, he wrote. No knowing if the towers themselves are magically protected, but it makes sense that they would be, to protect the tall structures from siege equipment and anything that might come through their outer portal.
He paused in his writing, wondering what his father would make of the information. His sire would never be able to mount an offensive against such a force, A
shok thought, but maybe the presence, the mere threat .…
It might be enough to draw the enclave’s attention away from its infighting, at least for a time. A threat from without could cause them to band together and emerge from hiding. There would be no more useless waste.
Ashok waited for the ink to dry and tucked the parchment in the pouch inside his armor. He hid the quill and ink among the ruins for use later. He left the building, picked out Tower Makthar in the distance, and started walking roughly in that direction. He did not want Skagi, Jamet and the others to know he had been wandering alone. Let them think he was content to train with the other recruits. If they thought he was tamed, it would draw their attention away from him.
When he got past Tower Pyton, the stone buildings thinned out into empty dirt streets choked with stone debris. Near the base of the canyon wall, Ashok glimpsed another fence made of iron, like the one encircling Tower Athanon, but higher. A handful of low stone buildings squatted nearby. Thin black smoke rose from two of them.
Beyond the buildings, Ashok saw a yawning cave mouth set into the canyon wall. He slowed his pace. He smelled fire, metal, and animal fur all wrapped up in a stinging reek that made his eyes water. Cautiously, he approached the iron fence, his hands gripping the bars.
Then he heard it.
Faintly, so it only sent a shiver of apprehension up his spine, then gradually the sound—a hollow, terrible scream—drew closer. Ashok waited, watching the cave mouth with a kind of giddy dread.
When the nightmare appeared like a blazing torch at the mouth of the cave, Ashok caught his breath.
A shadar-kai woman brought it out, its face covered by a hood and secured with chains so it couldn’t bite her. She’d wrapped a stiff cloth around her head and ears to dull the scream, but Ashok could see that it still affected her. She took sluggish steps, stumbled often, and jerked the nightmare’s head each time the scream rang out until it finally fell quiet.
They reached the fence, which contained an open pasture of sorts, with dead, singed grass all around. The woman opened a gate, removed the nightmare’s hood, and released the chain to let the beast run in relative freedom around the paddock.
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