Keedar nodded to the men. “I’m Renevar. This is Barstow.” The strangers stopped a few paces from the spit and dead coals.
“Our friend here is hurt,” Geran said. “We saw your fire, thought maybe there would be help.” The man’s gaze flitted past them to take in the rest of the area.
He was lying. Keedar knew it even without Winslow’s tell. They’d built a pit for the fire, and unless Geran had been standing over it, he would never have seen the flames. A combination of the smallest, driest twigs also ensured it had been smokeless.
“What happened?” Winslow asked.
“A korgan cat attacked our camp, went after our horses.” Geran scowled.
“Bastard killed two of our friends before we ended it,” Lothar said.
“One cat?” Keedar asked, frowning.
“Yes.”
“Must have been a big brute to take so many of you.” Keedar was certain he and Winslow were thinking along the same lines. Korgan cats hunted in triplets: two females and one male. Either the men were lying again or they had no idea just how much trouble they’d bought themselves. Winslow’s hand remained at his side.
“Damn thing was scary, tall enough for its head to reach my chest.” Geran nodded toward them. “With beasts like that on the loose, what are you two doing out here? Not the place one would expect to find Kasinians, and ones that haven’t seen twenty summers yet, unless I miss my mark.”
For at least one of us you are, Keedar thought. “We ran away from home some years ago. Our parents wanted to send us off to the Order, but being a wiseman wasn’t in our blood. We have a thing for the ladies.” Keedar offered the men a lopsided grin and in return got forced smiles.
“I know what you mean,” Geran said, nodding appreciatively, “but to flee here? That’s a bit much isn’t it, particularly with all the stories about Wild Kheridisians and the like.”
“Better here than up there freezing our balls off.” Keedar gestured to the Parmien. “As for the Wild Ones, the only wild things we’ve seen have been the animals. And we only come down here for the winter, most of the year we travel the Ost, taking jobs as deckhands.”
“Makes sense.”
Despite the relaxed conversation none of the men had attempted to sheath their weapons. Meklar had a white-knuckled grip on his hilt. Of even more concern was Kroenel, who was peering at Winslow, brows furrowed. For the briefest of moments his eyes narrowed, the drooping one almost closing completely. Keedar swore he saw a spark of recognition. And then Kroenel was back to normal, if a stare that resonated violence could be called normal.
“Well, there’s enough yellowtail here to share with you, if you wish,” Keedar said, hoping to ease the tension. He had been on the verge of asking after the men’s business but decided against it. He gestured to Lothar. “You’ll want to get some dolin moss rubbed in that wound. Korgans have infectious bites. Wait too long and you’ll lose the leg.”
The men glanced at each other, no doubt trying to determine if Keedar’s story was true. Keedar waited, heart thumping, ready to dash into the water if the need arose.
“We wouldn’t want that, would we?” Geran said, eyebrow arched. He sheathed his weapon. The other men followed his lead. “Where can we find this moss?”
“Just over there.” Keedar pointed to the pond. “Among the reeds. Barstow and I can snag a few, seeing as we know what to look for. Be much faster that way.”
“Appreciated” Geran nodded to the man with the scar, who was frowning again. “Kroenel, go with them in case they need a hand.” The man didn’t acknowledge Geran. “Kroenel,” Geran repeated, louder this time.
“What?” Kroenel scowled, making the scar across his eye more prominent.
“I said go with those two to get that moss.” Geran flicked his head in Winslow and Keedar’s direction. Kroenel nodded.
A blur of movement within the woods brought a halt to any protest Keedar thought to offer. He did all he could not to react or show his fear. “Let’s go.” He turned on his heels as calmly as he could manage.
As they walked, Keedar suppressed the urge to flee. One foot in front the other, one foot in front the other. “So, what brings you people to the Treskelin Forest?” He glanced over his shoulder to Kroenel.
“Hunting.”
Winslow didn’t scratch his beard.
“Ah, splendid game out here, I must admit. What are you after? Deer, goats, bears, perhaps some derins?” Considering the time of year he expected one or the other.
“Bears.”
Winslow scratched at his beard and neck.
“You should cut that thing off,” Kroenel said. “It’s why I keep mine shaved. Can’t stand the itching.”
“It actually soothes me.” Winslow chuckled. “I remember when I once felt as you do, but the ladies like to play in my hair. As long as they’re happy, I’m happy.”
“Hmmm,” Kroenel said, eyeing Winslow once more. “Something about you seems so familiar, but I can’t place it. What did you say your name was again?”
“I didn’t,” Winslow answered, “but it’s Renevar.”
Hells’ Angels. Keedar held his breath, hoping the man didn’t catch the mistake. Seconds felt like forever. At any moment he expected a yell, or to see the man reach for his sword, hear the rasp of steel on leather. He fought against the urge to inch his hand to his dagger’s hilt.
“Renevar, Renevar … nah, can’t place it, but I never forget a face. It’ll come to me.”
Relieved, Keedar exhaled slowly. When they reached the water’s edge, he stopped. “We’ll dive among the reeds to gather the moss and drop it here.” Without waiting for Kroenel’s assent he waded into the pond.
“That was close,” Winslow whispered a moment later. “Sorry about that.”
“Just be glad this one isn’t too smart,” Keedar said. “If it was Geran we’d be in trouble.” When they were among the tall reeds, he maneuvered so he could see Kroenel. The hunter was peering at several sheets of paper. When Kroenel finished with one he would stuff it back into the satchel at his waist.
“So how do we escape this,” Winslow asked. “Even wounded, I get the sense that Lothar is a good shot.”
“Depends on how they handle the korgans.” Keedar grinned cruelly as he gave a slight nod in the direction of the forest behind the men.
Twice the size of a hunting hound, a male korgan crept from the trees. Its tawny, short hair lay flat on its back, its mane a bush from which grew a face with an elongated snout, black nose, and golden eyes. Another slunk behind it, this one lacking a mane, and tall enough to reach Keedar’s waist.
Kroenel yelled and went charging up the shore. The other three men spun, weapons brandished. The cats were on them in a flash of slashing claws and snapping jaws. Against one cat, they might have stood a chance. Against two, they were but so much meat. It was over in minutes, each man with his throat torn open. The cats settled down to feast.
Shuddering, Keedar watched. Winslow vomited. When the cats had their fill, they dragged one of the remains into the forest.
After waiting until the commotion in the brush subsided, Keedar said, “Stay here, I’ll go first, make certain it’s safe.”
“Be careful, brother.”
Keedar nodded. He eased through the reeds and up onto the shore. He paused, waiting for any movement in the trees. The wind ruffling his hair was a cold thing, prickling his skin. He crept among the rocks and shale until he encountered the first corpse.
A deep rumble made him freeze.
There, its body hidden by the undergrowth was the male korgan cat, golden-eyed gaze tracking him. Slowly, ever so slowly, Keedar lay next to the body. Kroenel’s dead eyes stared at him.
The brush rustled. Soft footsteps padded across the ground. Fear coiled in Keedar’s chest, a knotted thing
that made it hard to breathe. His mouth dried, but he knew if he moved he was dead.
He flared open his vital points. He would fight if he had to, but there might be another way. Using the fourth cycle, sera, he projected his soul, filling it with his will, and one set of thoughts.
I’m dead. Ignore my body. The food is beside me.
A musky animal stench threaded the air. Keedar was certain the beast could hear his thundering heart. The pad of footsteps stopped inches away. Keedar held his breath, not wanting his chest to rise and fall. A shadow loomed over him. He did not so much as blink when he felt a heated, wet breath against his head and heard an animal snort. A warm, rough tongue touched his ear. It took everything in him not to leap to his feet.
I’m dead. Ignore my body. The food is beside me. He repeated the thought over and over again. The korgan continued to sniff, a low growl in its throat. Keedar’s chest burned with the need to draw in air.
On the verge of panicking at his inability to divert the korgan cat’s attention, Keedar noticed his soul. It rose in its normal wispy nimbus. Keshka’s lessons on the beasts that inhabited the Treskelin Forest came to him. Korgans hunted by soul, using it to track their prey.
He opened his vital points wider, at the same time drawing on the first and only inner cycle available to him: lumni. With it, he expelled the majority of his soul toward Kroenel’s corpse.
The korgan released a rolling growl and leaped on the man’s body. From the corner of his eyes Keedar watched it tear at the corpse, the bitter scent of blood and offal filling the air. Minutes stretched before the cat dragged the body off by the arm.
Keedar’s lungs were afire as he waited until the thrashing sounds of the cat dwindled into the brush. He counted for an additional twenty heartbeats before he could bear no more. Heart hammering, he gasped for air. Sweet, succulent air. It rushed into him like life itself. Minutes passed before the forest’s songs resumed. When they did, he sat up, stomach heaving as he relived his brush with death.
Winslow ran up beside him, clothes dripping wet. “I-I’m sorry. I froze. I wanted to help, but …”
“I’m glad you didn’t try. The thing might have killed us both.” Keedar climbed to his feet, his body feeling as if he’d trained for an entire day.
“What did you do?” Winslow asked. “One moment I saw your nimbus and then it was as if your soul fled you.”
“It’s the seventh cycle, my first inner one.”
“Lumni?”
“Yes.”
“Really? When did you attain it? How—I’m sorry.” Winslow shook his head, mouth downturned. “You almost died and here I am asking after your meld.”
“It’s fine,” Keedar said. “I gained lumni the day I passed the Fast of Madness. And it’s not a meld, just the effect of that cycle. It allows you to expel most of your soul.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“Keshka says it is. I fainted the first time I experimented with it.” Keedar felt the weakness coursing through him even now. He took in the carnage around him.
The hunters’ faces were locked in their final death throes, mouths open, eyes staring. They sparked memories from his nightmares, memories of the day he’d killed Gaston. It was a day he tried to forget, but it clung like the aftertaste of rancid food. He tried his best to ignore the mess left by the cats, to ignore his close call, but before long he was retching up lunch.
“This isn’t good.” Winslow had rummaged through Kroenel’s satchel and removed the papers. He brought them over.
Keedar recognized the artist’s renditions of Consortium members. Details on each man and woman were written in ink below the drawings. Old haunts, habits, family, and the like. For each person the reward ranged between a silver monarch and a gold bit. There were over a hundred sheets.
“We must warn Keshka,” Keedar said. He made one step toward the trees.
Light exploded in the sky. It was a dizzying display, a crystal held up to the sun. Blues, greens, yellows, reds, pinks, and many more colors besides, like an artist splashing paint onto a canvas, the colors mixing together to form hues beyond description. The phenomenon stretched up from the west before spreading outward, radiating within the clouds. For an instant Keedar thought the colors coalesced to form a vague winged image before bursting into chaos once more.
“What is it?” Winslow whispered, voice as awed as Keedar felt.
“I don’t know.” Even as Keedar said the words, something about the sky seemed familiar. The bounty hunter’s papers forgotten for a moment, he watched, captivated. When he was finally able to pull himself away, he headed for home, the strange sky and the bounty hunter’s portraits occupying his thoughts.
2
Dance of Death
Charred desolation. That was the Smear. Most buildings in Pauper’s Circle were blackened husks, dusted white with newly fallen snow. Some folks sifted through ruins, woolens and faces covered in soot. At least those who could afford woolens. Others clutched at the layers of old cloth or blankets wrapped around their bodies, heads down as they trudged aimlessly through the streets. They all had two things in common: the blackness that stained them and the lifeless appearance of people who’d lost everything.
The sight gouged a hole in Thar’s heart. This is my fault, all my fault, brother. I should have stopped you when I had a chance, and I should have known Ainslen would carve his pound of flesh from the common folk. The Night of Blades and Succession Day had taught those lessons, but he’d chosen to ignore them. Now, Delisar was imprisoned, tortured regularly for Thar’s failure, and the Smear’s current inhabitants suffered one atrocity after another.
Grimacing, Thar peered through a crack in a boarded up window on the third floor of a building that had escaped the worst of the conflagration on Leering Lane, two streets over from Pauper’s Circle. With most of its windows broken the structure did little to keep out the cold, but at least he didn’t have to cope with the howling eddies that rattled the eaves.
Out on the street, a woman fell to her knees near one of the many corpses littering the ground. She stroked the dead person’s disfigured face and wailed. Thar winced. Bawling, a man stumbled from the adjacent building, a small bundle cradled in his arms. All along Pauper’s Circle similar horrific tableaus repeated themselves, echoes of misery and suffering, the true face of war.
Several dozen narrow alleys to the left, on Deadman’s Gap, a crowd of survivors gathered, appearances as pitiful and bedraggled as those near Pauper’s Circle, but with one distinct difference. Most of them bore weapons of some sort: weather-beaten swords, pitchforks, axes, household cutlery, whatever they could lay hands on. Their voices rose, a tumult to protest the attacks by Ainslen’s militia of Blades, Farlanders, and watchmen. Perhaps a dozen feet separated them from the king’s militia, but not one among them crossed that threshold. Arrows had made pincushions of more than a dozen corpses lying on the broken cobbles. Men learned fastest by example, a tried and proven practice that Thar himself had applied on occasion.
Steel bared, arrows nocked, the militia waited, King’s Blades and watchmen dressed in long cloaks and furs, leather or mail over woolens. Ainslen’s new insignia emblazoned their surcoats: a scaled hand bursting with soul. People called it the Hand of Soul.
The Farlanders were similarly attired but for the pale leather evident in much of their garb. Images of ereskars, the fabled beasts depicted with oversized ears and legs, adorned the backs of the Farlander cloaks. Rumors continued to fly that the Farlanders had brought a few of the gigantic creatures to the mainland. Idiocy. Thar shook his head.
The king’s newly appointed marshals, Count Shaz of House Jarina, a Marishman who’d once been a member of the Shaded Snakes, and Lestin, the former Blades’ Drillmaster, oversaw the soldiers, ready to give the order for slaughter. Shaz had taken to his new role well, dressed in a damask c
oat lined with fox fur, rich black trousers, and derin leather gloves. The expensive clothes did nothing for his drooping eye and scarred visage. His long cloak bore a crest of a drinking cup and a woman’s silhouette.
Lestin, another dark-haired, tawny Marishman, who had a thing for iron sabatons rather than leather boots, sat astride his horse, surveying the crowd. He reached inside his cloak, removed a small pouch of Bloodleaf, and popped some into his mouth. The man’s jaws worked like a cow chewing cud, but despite the apparent disinterest, Thar knew Lestin was ready for any threat.
Thar almost wished he were his old self, the young Lightning Blade, instead of a white-haired man, long in years, known to everyone as Keshka. He pictured that brash warrior in him wading through the militia. With the thought, tiny charges tingled through him, settling in his hands.
He recalled when he’d first gained his skill and thus his name. During his training he’d sought something different, something unlike the usual flames or stone favored by Casters and Manifestors. Intrigued by storms, he’d watched from a window in the Winds of Time as several lightning bolts lashed the metallic spire on the rooftop. The immense power lifted the hair on his body. For the next few months he chased thunderheads, making certain he stood near that spire. When the strike came again, the energy shot through him, made him arc his back, left him charged. Ever since that night he could copy lightning and much more besides.
A commotion at the rear of the gathered soldiers caught Thar’s eye, broke him from his reverie. Ranks parted. A sea of thick red and blue robes washed between the spears and swords. The ten-pointed Star of the Dominion was prominent on the newcomers’ breasts, the tips of each point connected by a line to those adjacent, forming a ten-sided perimeter.
Wisemen. Thar almost spit to one side.
As he considered the appearance of the Order of the Dominion’s members, Thar’s brow furrowed. These were not only the initiates, identified by their full heads of hair, but several of the upper echelon. Among them were Clerics, the left side of their heads shaven; Deacons, bald on the right sides; and Bishops, hairless strips running down the crown of their heads from front to back. Mystics were sprinkled among them, white sashes draped from left shoulder to right waist. Curates wore black sashes on the opposite side. Some of the wisemen held torches, flames capering in the wind.
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