by Sam Sykes
With blood on her howl, she tore away from the guards. Their hands snapped; they cried out as she jerked away and lunged for Khutu. The painted man held up his wand in a defense barely as feeble as his voice and skinny hands.
She tore the implement from his grasp, seized his arm, and rammed it down. The wand split through the tendons of his wrist, splintering as it burst out the other side. She seized him by the shoulders and threw him, screaming, into the pack of guards.
The men at the perimeter, holding the crowd back, reached for their swords. But they took no further action as Kataria seized her bow from the street and drew an arrow in a seamless movement. Khutu flailed amidst a tangle of guards, screaming for someone to do something.
She obliged him, her response in the shriek of a metal arrowhead biting the air.
It flew into the gang of men, missing Khutu only by his fortuitous squirm, and lodging itself in the collarbone of a guard who went down gurgling. The others advanced warily, held at bay as she drew another arrow and swept its point about, silently challenging anyone to step closer.
“Stop! STOP!”
Someone did. Someone she didn’t feel the urge to put an arrow into.
Yet.
Carrying a dirty hat in her hand and breathing heavily, Asper pushed past the crowd and into the square. She interposed herself between Kataria and the guards, hands thrown out wide as though they would be a suitable shield for either arrow or blade.
“Just stop!” the priestess cried out. “It’s very obvious that you’re not going to take her without losing more than ear, so let’s just calm down for a moment.”
“She… she killed one of the house’s guards!” Khutu cried out, disentangling himself from the men.
“You kidnapped her,” Asper countered hotly.
“She did this!” The painted man held up his impaled wrist. “She bit off an ear!”
“You kidnapped someone prone to stabbing and biting!” Asper snapped. She waved a hand at Kataria. “Did you not see the teeth and bow? What the hell did you think was going to happen, halfwit?”
“I’ll tell you what I think is going to happen.”
Kataria’s voice was accompanied by the creak of her bow as she drew her arrow upon Khutu. Asper took her by the wrist, drawing her close and growling.
“There are at least a dozen of them,” she said harshly.
“And there’s two of us,” Kataria replied. “Handle three of them and I’ll take care of the rest.”
“And what’ll you do about the rest of the city when it comes down on us?” Keeping herself close enough to interfere with Kataria’s aim, Asper turned and addressed Khutu. “Look, obviously, there’s been some”—she glanced at Khutu, bleeding atop a dead man—“misunderstanding. We can work this out! Maybe!”
“I agree entirely.”
The voice was long and low as it came from the tent. A pair of the shirtless men drew back the curtains to expose what appeared to be something between a man, a grub, and a pillow that couldn’t quite make up its mind.
Kataria had seen humans before that were merely fat. Kataria had seen humans that were merely gargantuan. There was nothing mere about this human.
His many rolls of flesh, wrapped in a blue silk robe that was somehow both voluminous and straining at the same time, blended indistinguishably with the many silken pillows that he sat among. Burdens of gold and silver wreathed his shoulders, his chubby digits, his many chins. And atop it all, the peak of a mountain of excess, a head shaved of all hair and painted in wreaths of white and blue colors crowned the face that stared down with a smile as vast as his person.
“May the House of Ghoukha, Fasha of Cier’Djaal, extend fondest welcomes to you, northerner.”
His voice flowed like a river, something deep and resonant that did not expect to be resisted. His gaze, though, was something darker that settled upon Kataria like a hungry night.
“Please, accept my humblest apologies for our misunderstanding,” the man called Ghoukha boomed. “I trust that we need not prove the northern repute for unreasonableness correct today, yes?”
Asper’s face screwed up slightly. “Pardon?”
“Of course.” Ghoukha nodded, sending his chins jiggling. “There is no need to let the relations of our regions be dictated by senseless melodramatics, yes?”
Kataria glanced over her shoulder, at the tears streaking Khutu’s face, at the dead man lying next to the severed ear. She snorted.
“What has happened here is no more than a mistake, a cut thumb on a paper’s edge.” Ghoukha chuckled, rippling. “And do we all not look foolish when we spill blood over a mistake? Of course, we apologize for trying to take the shict.”
“Well.” Asper visibly shrank with the force of her sigh. “Good.”
“We had no idea she belonged to you.” He placed his massive hands together and inclined his head in apology. “We shall, of course, pay for her.”
Asper’s eyes went as wide as Kataria’s went narrow. The priestess held up her hands.
“Uh, well, I’m flattered—”
Kataria whirled her scowl upon the woman. “The hell are you flattered for?”
It would be hard to explain to anyone, Asper thought, how after so many years of being assumed to be the weak one in the group, someone thought of her as strong enough to own someone. It would certainly be no easier to explain to a shict trembling with barely contained fury. She cleared her throat, looked back to Ghoukha.
“She’s not mine. She’s not yours. You can’t have her for any amount.”
Ghoukha stared at her blankly for a moment. The lower lids of his eyes, painted blue, rose beneath his eyes, giving the impression of an enraged reptile.
“Northerner.” His voice no longer flowed, but boiled in his throat and emerged as hissing steam. “I am fasha. My family owns spiders. My family owns silk. My family owns this city. I am gentle enough to spend coin as pleasantries and, like pleasantries, I have no difficulty withholding them if I find them inconvenient.”
The fasha was trembling now as his voice boiled inside him, sending his body quivering. Kataria saw his men responding, reaching for blades, inching closer. She drew her arrow, began picking targets.
It would have been much easier had Asper not stepped in front of her.
“You will not do anything,” she said, her voice a rock to break the waters. She thrust her symbol, the silver Phoenix of Talanas, toward the fasha. “I am a priestess of Talanas, associated with the Lord Emissary of the Church of Talanas, Miron Evenhands. She is my associate and your men will step aside and let us pass unless you want trouble that’ll make severed ears seem a pleasantry.”
“You dare speak to me in such a way?” Ghoukha snarled. “You dare utter a God’s name at me? No God reigns over a fasha and no northerner tells a fasha what he shall do!”
He made a wave of a massive hand. The guards began to close in. Kataria took stock of targets—exposed throats, wide eyes, men without helmets—as she counted the arrows at her quiver. Not enough for clean kills all around. But that was what she had a knife for.
Asper backed up against her warily. A solid woman with a speech, Kataria knew, but not much use without a weapon. If she was lucky, the priestess might be a good distraction.
“Miron! MIRON!”
Then again, there might be a better one.
She heard him long before he came stumbling out into the cobblestones. There were only so many voices that bore so much frustration, confusion, and anger at once. It wasn’t exactly a relief to see Lenk come pushing through the crowd into the square. But people in need of distractions couldn’t afford to be choosy.
“Miron, where the hell did you—”
The young man’s voice cut off as he became aware of his surroundings. He looked behind him with an uncertain expression upon his face before he became aware of the armed men surrounding him. He glanced at Kataria and Asper, bow drawn and backs pressed together. He threw his hands up in the air.
“How the fuck did this happen?”
“We were just fine until you came along,” Kataria snarled.
“Clearly.”
“And fine time you took, too,” she snapped. “Didn’t you hear me? Didn’t you hear me being taken away?”
“How could I?” he roared right back.
“Because I can hear you!” she said, voice strained at the edges. “I can’t hear anything but you!”
He flinched, as though struck. He looked away from her, to the men surrounding them. “Look, we can talk this—”
“Already tried that,” Kataria interjected.
“Of course.” Lenk’s sigh was matched with the hiss of steel as he drew his sword. He held it warningly before him as he moved to join his companions. “How many?”
“A dozen, at least,” Asper replied. “Where’s Denaos?”
“Where do you think?” he asked.
“Of course,” she sighed.
“It’s not that bad,” Lenk replied. “They might kill us, but not before we—”
“Kill you?” Ghoukha laughed from his tent. “Oh, my friends. We are Djaalics. We will not kill you.” He smiled broadly, folding his hands over his massive belly. “We have people to do that for us.”
He looked to Khutu and inclined his head. The small man turned a spiteful sneer upon the companions as he slid a hand into his sleeve and produced a delicate crystal bell. He flicked it gently, releasing three crystalline notes into the air. They carried over the hushed crowd, ringing through the sky.
Kataria’s ears twitched. She looked at Khutu and drew her bow.
“I like this game,” she said. “Now tell me what this sounds like.”
She paused as her ears rose up of their own volition, a faraway sound filling them. Something deep, like the sound of thunder. It came again and again, growing louder. By the fifth time it came, she did not hear it.
She felt it.
Under her feet, the ground quaked. Before her, the crowd parted, flinging themselves to the sides as something tremendous came striding forth.
A shadow fell.
A dragonman. Perhaps ten feet tall—perhaps more—the color, size, and density of a large rock towered over the scene. Thick gray scales interlocked like plates over a body bound by a thick harness and kilt. Limbs like tree trunks hung from shoulders broad as an ox. Upon a dense neck, a reptilian head with a prodigious underbite and a very vast, very sharp horn affixed to a thick snout swung back and forth.
Black pits for nostrils twitched as he drew in a scent. Only after a moment did the great dragonman think to look down. Black eyes, wide as fists, took the companions in. Kataria saw herself reflected in the obsidian orbs, saw her vast, astonished gaze staring back at her.
Slowly, the dragonman looked over to Khutu.
“You can’t be serious.” His voice was slow, unstoppable, a rock rolling down a hill. “There are only three of them.”
“They’re animals, Kharga. Savages!” Khutu held up his bleeding wrist. “See what they did to me?”
“I can’t bend down that far,” the dragonman boomed.
“The fasha pays you that he need not subject his men to such barbarism,” Khutu shrieked to be heard. “Do as you are commanded.”
Kharga looked to Ghoukha, who gave an approving nod.
The dragonman sighed, reaching over his shoulder to grip a massive haft. He pulled free a broad ax in the shape of a cleaver, gripping it in two massive hands. The companions backed away, huddled together, raised weapons.
“Oh, Gods,” he rumbled. “Let’s not make this messy.” He hefted it over his head. “I don’t get paid enough.”
They began to scatter, found Ghoukha’s men herding them back toward the dragonman. Eyes desperately swept the square, searching for reprieve and, finding none, looked to heaven for a miracle.
It never came. Not from heaven, anyway.
But neither did the blow. The ax never fell. Instead, Kharga looked up, over the companions. His nostrils swallowed a great gulp of air. His eyes narrowed to spearheads. A growl rumbled in his throat.
“Have my scent, scum?”
A familiar voice spoke. Not as loud as Kharga’s. But just as vast and brimming with a fury Kataria knew well.
The crowd rippled away from the figure, towering defiant over the humans in a filthy black cloak, that had spoken as Kharga’s gaze swung toward it. Kataria saw him and felt a grin creeping across her face. Lenk saw, too. She could tell by his groan.
“Oh, no…”
Not an unreasonable response. Despite his timely arrival, things rarely got simpler when Gariath showed up.
“How long has it been since you caught the scent?” Gariath roared beneath his hood. “How long have you choked on the human weakness, Drokha?”
“Rhega…” Kharga rumbled, the word a bone that stuck in his craw. “Rhega.”
“DROKHA!”
Two great arms, red as blood and ending in vicious claws, flew out of his cloak and seized it, tearing it from a body thick with crimson muscle wrapped in a dirty leather kilt. Vast wings spread behind him like a cape, sending people scattering. A reptilian head, topped with horns, flanked by ear-frills, ending in a snout full of razor-sharp teeth, threw back and let out a howl.
A howl met, matched, and swallowed by Kharga’s roar.
The great gray dragonman thundered forward, heedless of the companions leaping out of his way or the guardsmen crushed beneath him. Gariath met him, falling to all fours and rushing forward with a horrifying laugh in his mouth. He leapt, seizing Kharga by the throat and tearing with his claws while his foe tried to dislodge him.
“Damn it, damn it, damn it!” Lenk snarled. “How the fuck did this happen?”
Kataria had answers for that, of course. Most of them involved punching him in the face. Satisfying as that might be, she held her fist as something caught her ear.
Somewhere distant, a bell tolled. The scent of flames rose to fill the air with black smoke. Someone screamed; a name went up on the smoke and fear.
“Khovura!” they screamed. “Khovura are here! Run! RUN!”
NINE
GLORY TO GOD
The Souk was dying before Lenk even knew what was happening.
Screams choked on smoke that rose in black plumes. People cloaked in shadow slipped as black serpents among the human tide, blades in hand and blood underfoot. Flames rose in bright blossoms through merchant stalls. Everywhere, fire was rising. Everywhere, steel was flashing. Everywhere, people were running and screaming and falling.
And Lenk was left to wonder why it was that, whenever everything went straight to hell, it could never do so in a calm, orderly manner.
He wasn’t certain what was happening as the world caught ablaze around him. No more than he was certain what was happening as one of Ghoukha’s guards fell down before him.
Until he saw the long-bladed knife jutting from the man’s back.
Thin fingers wrapped about the hilt of the weapon, wrenching it free from the guard’s back. A man wrapped in shadow-black clothes twirled it about to reverse his grip on the blade. Above a dark veil, eyes burned narrow and bright and full of hate.
“Deshaa fasha,” he hissed, stepping over the guard’s body. “Asathu deshaa.” He broke into a charge. “KHOTH-KAPIRA!”
Through instinct and only a bit of luck did Lenk’s sword come up in time to meet the shadow-clad’s blade. The man moved with such fervent speed that anything short of snap reflexes would have found Lenk with an opened throat. Their steel kissed in a shriek, the man trying to push Lenk’s guard forward and receiving only a boot to the belly.
He did not so much stagger backward as slither. In one fluid movement, he shed fervor from his stance and slid into a fighter’s poise, hands up, blade held at the ready, eyes alight.
Lenk tightened his grip on his blade, stepping into a swing as he brought an arc of steel to bear against the man. And with that same serpentine confidence, the man slithered out of the way. L
enk followed with another cut and another, as much to test the man’s defenses as to keep him back. And each time, he was met with empty air and a frustratingly fluid foe.
He chanced another swing, fast and light. And he found flesh. But no joy to go with it.
The man recognized the strength behind the blow and caught it in his palm. Lenk found his blade trapped between fingers that most impolitely refused to be hacked off, even as blood oozed between them.
“Deshaa fasha,” the man repeated, fighting for control of the blade as he drew closer to his foe. “Deshaa, nejiru.” He snarled, whipping out his blade and catching Lenk on the cheek, drawing a thin red line. “KHOTH-KAP—”
It was, as it turned out, hard to scream gibberish when one’s mouth was full of blood. And it was hard to keep one’s mouth free of blood when a short man with a thick skull slammed it into the bridge of one’s nose. The man sputtered, red spattering out beneath his veil as he staggered backward.
Lenk tore his blade free, drawing a shriek of agony.
“I heard you the first time,” he snarled.
The pommel of his blade came down, smashing against the man’s face and driving him to his knees. Lenk flipped his sword in his hand, angling the blade down into the man’s collarbone and thrusting.
The scream lasted for but a moment. The spasming of his corpse, even shorter. The hatred, though, the fury that burned in his eyes lingered long after he slumped to the stones in a leaking pool of red.
“DESHAA! DESHAA!”
He whirled, saw another man in black sweeping up through the panicking mob. He raised his sword, saw the long scimitar in the man’s hand come flashing out silver and red. He gaped and saw the man spring into the air and sail over the crowd to come descending upon Lenk.
But when he saw the man sent spinning awkwardly in his flight to crash upon the ground, unmoving, he merely cursed.
He looked from the dead man on the ground and the arrow quivering in his throat to the woman who had launched it. Kataria came stalking up, ire in her eyes and bow in her hands.
“The hell were you during that last fight?”
She spared a scowl for him, briefly, before gesturing over her shoulder to the three other dead men lying on the stones with arrows in their corpses.