Someone rolled him over, and he saw Chohlit once again. From his horse, the man barked a series of orders, words Innowen couldn't quite understand for the ringing in his ears. Two soldiers approached from the right, dragging Razkili awkwardly between them. Innowen found breath, and managed to raise up on one elbow. Before he could do more, rough hands seized him and hauled him to his feet.
Chohlit slid down from his horse. With a satisfied smirk, he grabbed Razkili by the hair and jerked his head up so that they were eye to eye. Razkili's face twisted in pain, and his cry was a knife that stabbed Innowen's heart. Twice, then, Chohlit lashed out with the back of his hand, and a thick stream of blood poured from the Osiri's mouth. With an animal growl, Razkili tried to kick Chohlit, but the enraged soldier easily sidestepped the blow and threw a savage punch at Razkili's gut. "Hold him tighter!" he directed his two men.
Chohlit bent over Rascal. "You should have killed me," he hissed. His hands locked around Razkili's throat. "Now I'm going to finish what you started, just the way you started it."
Chohlit's finger tightened slowly. Razkili struggled, his eyes widening with fear. The guards held him with his arms outstretched, his back arched to the breaking point, as Chohlit forced him backward.
"Stop!" Innowen cried. With the strength of desperation, he pulled free of the hands that held him. "You cowards!" He had no sword, no lance, no weapon at all, and Chohlit's guards were reaching for him already.
But they were killing Razkili! "Damn you!" he screamed. "Damn you all!"
Before they could seize him, he flung his arms high and whirled, the toes of his right foot digging deep into the soft ground as he turned. "Bastards!" he muttered furiously. He swept his left leg high in a smooth arch, lunged his weight onto it, and sprang erect again, balanced on one leg, his left foot on his right knee.
Tears began to trickle from his eyes, fear for what was about to happen, fear for Rascal and for himself. But they were angry tears, too.
The wind seemed suddenly to rise about him, its voice a terrible melody in his ears. He whirled, snapped his head to the right, and rolled a shoulder up, back, down. He paused, looked about, and knew he had them now. Chohlit's soldiers seemed frozen as they watched him. Innowen touched his palms together over his head and slid one hand seductively down the other arm, leaning far to the side as he did. The wind sang a new note, and a timpani joined it, the heartbeats, he realized with a horrible certainty, of the men around him. Even Chohlit's eyes were on him now. Innowen met his rapt gaze and poured hatred for the man into his dance.
Somewhere behind him, he heard a scream. A body fell across the corner of his vision. He gave it barely a glance but saw the blood that poured from an ugly gash where once a throat had been. With an incoherent shout, another man jumped on the body and hacked it until the bronze blade of his sword bent at an angle and threatened to break. Someone dragged him off the mutilated corpse, but nearby two more men leaped at each other.
Innowen didn't care what the quarrels were. It didn't matter. Chohlit still had Rascal in his grip, that was all he knew. So he danced, danced, whirling, taunting with his body, drawing dark designs in the air with his arms, weaving intricate patterns with his hands and fingers, unleashing the power that, even yet, he didn't comprehend, power that frightened and terrified him. Yet for Razkili's sake he didn't shirk away.
Slowly, a change rippled over Chohlit's features. His hands unclenched, and Rascal sagged unconscious into a heap at his tormentor's feet. With a snarl, Chohlit kicked him in the ribs and looked for an instant as if he intended to follow it with a second blow. Instead, he balled his fists tightly, lifted them up before his eyes, and stared at them with a look of utter loathing. Without warning, he threw back his head and howled a pitiful sound of such soul-wrenching intensity that it caused Innowen to freeze in midmovement. Stunned, he watched Chohlit fall to his knees, clutch his face in his hands, and weep like a spirit in despair.
It was the final crack in the dam of sanity, and chaos surged free. The rest of Chohlit's men turned on each other, and the air vibrated with screams and curses. Then came the clash of weapons. Some, though, would not fight; they fled, wailing, across the open field, pursued by their personal demons. One man ripped away his clothing, took his sword and drew it across his wrists without a whisper or moan, and sat down to watch his life essence flow away. A hideously sublime smile spread across his mouth.
Innowen ran to Razkili's side and cradled his friend's head in his Jap. A sob broke from him as he gazed around again and realized what he'd done. But he'd had to, to save Rascal. He hadn't wanted to do it. They'd made him. They'd brought it on themselves!
"What did you do?" The words were like the sound of a serpent slithering through dry leaves. "What did you do?"
Innowen looked up and saw Chohlit. "What did you do to us?" he demanded again, through clenched teeth. He struggled shakily to his feet and drew his sword. Tears brimmed from his eyes, and his face was a mask of grief and pain. He moved toward them, though, lifting each leg and setting it down ponderously as if his feet were huge stones.
Innowen looked around frantically and found a blade in the grass close by. He hugged Razkili closer, shielding his friend with his body, and lifted the weapon high to ward off the expected blow.
A horn sounded from the direction of the camp. Then another and another. Chohlit hesitated. Beneath Innowen, the ground shook suddenly with the thunder of horse's hooves. A lot of horses, he realized. New screams and shouting drowned the horns. Innowen risked a glance over his shoulder as fire rose from the tents.
"Damn you!" Chohlit cursed. "I knew you were spies!"
"Forget us!" Innowen shouted back. "Save your damned camp if you can. Or your miserable hide, whichever you value more!"
Chohlit gave a roar and rushed at Innowen, slamming his sword down. Innowen caught the blow on his own blade. Again, Chohlit struck, without skill or style, and again, Innowen blocked it, but the sheer force of the impact shivered down his arm and shoulder. When Chohlit raised to strike a third time, Innowen moved faster and raked his edge over Chohlit's unprotected shin. The man leaped back with a sharp scream, cut to the bone, blood pouring down his leg.
"Get out of here!" Innowen shouted furiously. "Save yourself, man! Where's your precious rebellion if you let yourself get caught?!"
Chohlit shot a glance at his burning encampment. Then he looked back to Innowen. Gone were the tears; purest hatred burned in his gaze, and Innowen thought he would attack again. Instead, he turned and ran, but not toward the camp. Across the plain he sped, abandoning his troops to the mercies of whoever had attacked them.
Innowen dropped his sword and bit his lip. Not one of Chohlit's men remained to threaten him. Some were dead, or dying. A few were little more than weeping wretches, hugging and rocking themselves on the ground, moaning words that made no sense. Most had simply run away.
"Wake up, Rascal," he urged, bending close to his friend's ear and shaking him gently. "Wake up. We've got to get away, too." But though his chest rose and fell with regular, if shallow breaths, Razkili didn't stir.
The flames in the distance made a beautiful glow as they reduced Chohlit's camp to ashes. Silhouetted against the orange light, Innowen saw a band of riders coming his way. He looked around forlornly. Even if there had been some place of concealment, it was too late to hide. Perhaps it was the horses wandering near that had attracted attention. Or maybe, the weird carnage. In any case, there was no point in trying to run.
Innowen shut his eyes for a moment and gritted his teeth. He almost regretted what he had done. But Rascal was alive, and that was what mattered. Gently, he lowered his friend's head to the earth, rose, and picked up a lance from the grass. Standing over Rascal, he prepared to meet these new riders.
Wordlessly, they made a ring around him, nine in all. Innowen twirled the lance in the showiest pattern he knew, warning enough, he hoped. Then he set the butt on the ground between his feet and leaned on it. He raised an eyeb
row questioningly, regarding each of them in turn.
One of the riders was dressed differently from the others. He wore the same black kilt and green cloak, but over his bare chest he wore thick plates of gold that hung from chains around his neck and waist. The helm that covered his face also appeared to be entirely gold, and a long horsehair crest flowed from its peak.
Innowen addressed him politely, but without timidity. "Neither I, nor my friend," he gestured toward Razkili without looking away, "is part of Chohlit's army. We're travelers newly returned to Ispor. They mistook us for spies." He forced a smile. "We thank you for your intervention."
"I know well enough you're no spy." The man in gold lifted off his helm with both hands. "Welcome home, Innocent."
Innowen stared in disbelief. "Taelyn!"
On the ground, Razkili raised up on one elbow, rubbed his neck as he gave Innowen a queer look, and muttered with a doubtful hint of amusement, "Innocent?"
Chapter 6
Innowen lay awake on his cot as daylight seeped through the thin fabric of the tent. Like water evaporating slowly in the sun, he felt the life leave his legs. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping the darkness behind his lids might keep the dawn away a few moments longer. He hated the sun, hated the bright blue sky and the light of day.
Razkili sat on the ground beside him, watching him, unable to keep the sorrow from his face. He reached out and took Innowen's hand and held it, then lay his head down on the side of the cot. His touch was strangely warm-hot, Innowen thought, like a spark on the verge of becoming fire, and he tried to concentrate on that instead of his legs. Already he couldn't move his toes or bend his knees. He could feel the weight of the woolen coverlet, but little by little even that sensation faded, faded away.
"Rascal." He brushed his fingers through his friend's short, dark curls. Razkili looked up, and their gazes met. "It's done."
Wordlessly, Razkili slipped his hand from Innowen's, got up, and went to his own cot on the other side of the tent. He turned on his side, his face to the wall. Innowen watched him for a long time, watched the swell and sink of his body as he breathed, the shift of an arm to an easier position, the unconscious bending and straightening of a leg. He couldn't tell, though, if Rascal actually slept or if he just strained for a rest that wouldn't come.
Innowen listened for sounds from the outside. Taelyn's camp was unusually quiet. The shuffle of feet as someone passed by, a pair of muffled voices approaching and receding, a cough from the next tent, that was all he heard. Well, it was only dawn. The soldiers would just be rousing.
He folded his arms under his head, and his thoughts turned back to Chohlit and the experience of the previous night. He bit his lip, recalling the man who had slit his wrists and smiled about it. Innowen closed his eyes, as if he might shut the vision out so easily, but it remained and wouldn't leave him. Odd, how that soldier had drawn his sword from its sheath so casually, levered it across his veins, and sank so gracefully down. Almost as if he, too, had been performing a dance.
And he, Innowen, had been the piper. The dead man might have had a family. Maybe he'd had parents to support. Maybe he'd had just cause for joining an army that opposed Kyrin. How could Innowen know? His only thoughts had been to save Rascal.
He stared at his friend's back. He had done the right thing, the only thing. Yet it felt so bad. He had never ever purposely danced to hurt anyone before, and he knew the images from last night would haunt him for a long time to come. Had he been able at that moment, he might have drawn up into a ball and never come out. Instead, he threw an arm over his eyes. Only in sleep could he hope to hide from the world.
He woke to the sound of arguing voices. Razkili stood at the tent flap blocking the entrance. Innowen couldn't see the man beyond, but he recognized Taelyn's barely patient tones. "It's all right, Rascal," Innowen said, rolling to his side. "He knows."
Razkili glanced at Innowen over his shoulder, hesitating. Then he shrugged and went to sit on his cot. His surreptitious gaze never left Taelyn, though he leaned back on one elbow and drew a foot up onto the edge, adopting a pose of relaxed indifference. But Innowen was not fooled. He knew Rascal too well and could sense his tension.
Taelyn stood for an instant at the threshold and regarded them both. He had never been an easy man to read, Innowen realized, and he suspected that too many years as a slave had taught Taelyn to lock his emotions behind a lot of high walls. Still, he had a fondness for this man who had taken care of him at Whisperstone, and they had become good friends.
"How are you feeling?" Taelyn asked Innowen.
He slapped his dead right leg and cracked a grin. "I'll be better after sundown."
Taelyn rubbed a hand along the dark stubble on his chin. "You both have some pretty ugly bruises. If I'd known Chohlit had you, I'd have ordered the attack sooner."
"You might have gotten us killed," Razkili said sullenly.
Taelyn cocked an eyebrow and folded his arms. His open stare was not hostile, but it was plain he was drawing some conclusion about the Osiri.
"They thought we were spies," Innowen explained evenly, attempting to draw Taelyn's attention back to himself. "We couldn't seem to convince them otherwise."
Taelyn pursed his lips, then drew a deep breath and visibly relaxed. For an instant, as he sat down on the edge of Innowen's cot, a heavy weariness showed at the corners of his eyes, there but for a moment, then gone. "I don't doubt that," he said, allowing a careful smirk. "Chohlit's a crazy bastard. Burned an entire village three days ago. Caught every man, woman and child first, tied them up, and tossed them back in their homes before he set the fires. Our Third Army caught up with them yesterday. You said you crossed a battlefield? I was supposed to join up with them before they engaged, but we were delayed by a minor skirmish with yet another bunch of rebels."
Innowen nodded. "Chohlit said there were small rebellions all over Ispor. Is Kyrin really so bad a king?"
Taelyn passed a hand over his eyes, then leaned back and stared at the tent's rooftop. "He's no king at all. While drought and crop failure plague Ispor, he sits in Parendur fattening himself on everything he can rake in from the locals. King? Bandit chieftain is more like it. But he manages to maintain an uneasy truce with a handful of nobles, though he and Minarik are constantly at each other's throats over one thing or another. Only the blood they share binds them together."
"How is Minarik?" Innowen asked, reclining. In that same moment, he noticed the leather slave's collar was gone from Taelyn's neck. "And how did you come to command an army? I think things must have changed very much since I left."
Taelyn pursed his lips again and looked thoughtful. "Minarik is not himself," he said at last. "The years have weighed heavily on him, Innocent. He seems constantly distracted. I don't know by what." He leaned forward, braced his elbows on his knees, and stared at the floor. With seeming reluctance, he gazed toward Innowen once more.
"It started just after you left," he continued. "Something occupies his mind, some secret that he shares with no one. When he's not in the capitol fighting with Kyrin, he spends most of his time alone at Whisperstone pacing his chambers or wandering around the courtyard. When Kyrin ordered the nobles to raise armies and quiet the various rebellions, Minarik obeyed, but he freed me and put me in command as an affront to the king." He allowed a tiny smile to turn up the corners of his lips. "Fortunately, I've proven quite good at it."
"We were on our way to Whisperstone," Innowen said, glancing at Razkili. The Osiri still maintained his posture on the far cot as he picked at a hang nail on one finger. Their gazes brushed for a brief moment, long enough for Innowen to know that despite his seeming indifference, Rascal was listening intently to every word and evaluating.
Taelyn's weight shifted on the cot. Innowen had to look to realize the former slave had laid a hand on his knee. He tried to feel something, the smallest sensation, the slightest pressure. But there was nothing, only the evidence of his eyes to tell him he had been touched. "
What of the Witch?" Taelyn asked quietly. "Did you find her?"
Innowen shook his head as he closed his eyes. Her face floated in his memory, shining with a strange light as it did that night she came to him. Her voice whispered on the wind that rustled the thin fabric of the tent. He could hear it now on his small cot, teasing him, tormenting. Dance, my Innocent, dance away the world! Those words reverberated in the dimmest corners of his soul. They worried him, gnawed at the edges of his dreams when he slept. How many times had he tried to shut them out? Yet an echo always remained to haunt him. And from time to time, in the puff of a breeze or the unexpected rustle of a leaf, he would hear her voice afresh. Dance, she said.
"I followed every possible clue," Innowen whispered almost to himself. "To the borders of Ispor and beyond. I sailed the Tasmian Sea and wandered as far as the bright new city called Jeriko with all its wonders. I found no trace of her." He opened his eyes, but it was not the tent he saw, nor Taelyn, nor even Razkili. Rather, he saw gleaming walkways and high bastions of white stone that sparkled in the sun, slender columns of infinite grace and beauty, majestic pyramids, all the marvelous things he had seen in his travels. There were blue mountains hung with mist, and oceans, and proud ships with crackling white sails, and deserts that burned and shimmered. Smells rushed upon him as he remembered, and sounds of blustering crowds, of cattle herdsmen, of caravans and camel bells. Of ships' riggings creaking in the lonely night winds. Dance! they all urged him. Dance!
He threw an arm over his face, wishing the memories away. "In time," he continued, "I gave up looking for her. I tried, instead, to find her god and to learn more about Him. I visited temples and questioned priests wherever I went. 'What,' I asked them, 'could they tell me of wooden idols and copper nails?'" He uncovered his eyes, looked at Taelyn, and forced a smile. "All I got for my troubles was a collection of dolls."
Shadowdance Page 11