by J. F. Lewis
“Who can’t?” Kazan asked before he could catch himself.
“Me,” Malmung swung the polearm around, turning as he did so, to let it sling out to its full length, the spike at its eye coming within a hairsbreadth of Kazan’s nose, “for one, but I’ve learned it’s not a weakness . . .”
A map of the surrounding area bloomed in the mind of the four Overwatches, every bit as detailed as what they might have shown him had he asked. The words “it marks me as a different sort of weapon” appeared in golden ink inscribed in the air above the surface of the map.
“Now for your test,” Malmung said aloud, deliberately, as if he were being careful to get each word exactly right. “You are released to your former duty, assigned to kholster Rae’en. Your kholster is in the field. Dismissed.”
On the word dismissed, Malmung’s presence dropped away from them as if a link had been severed. He brushed by Kazan, slapped the hilt of a dagger into his hand, and walked off into the night.
Holding the blade conveyed a sense of potential need and eventual return. Kazan saw an image of himself going somewhere, coming back, and giving the blade back to Malmung just as Malmung had given it to him.
This dagger is a soul-bonded implement, Kazan thought to the others.
I figured out what he calls his primary tool, Joose thought back.
What?
Joose sent them an image of the polearm. That.
That’s shiverworthy, M’jynn thought back. What a miscast he is.
I think if he had to put it into words, he would just call it “My Implement” or maybe “The polearm I made to kill with that holds a splinter of my soul.”
Kazan turned the dagger over in his hand. It had a sharp curving blade with only one cutting edge. The words “Return when finished” were etched in fuller-like grooves on either side of the blade.
So . . . do we go back to the barracks? Arbokk asked.
“Our kholster is in the field.” Kazan tasted the words as he slid the strange dagger into one of his twin pouches.
And where does an Overwatch belong? Joose prodded.
Kazan smiled, an expression he saw reflected equally on the tired faces of his fellows. He nodded.
Do you think we’ll get to see a Zaur? M’jynn asked.
No, Kazan thought back. They’re probably all dead.
An Oathbreaker? Arbokk thought. I’d love to tear into one of them.
Let’s just find Rae’en first, Kazan ordered.
As one, they turned and ran into the night following the pull of their kholster’s presence, somewhere out over the horizon, down the Commerce Highway and beyond, a burning ache not of pain but of absence.
It would still track pretty well to get to kill some Zaur, Kazan thought, focusing his mind on keeping the thought to himself as he ran.
CHAPTER 20
GENERAL TSAN
Half a world away, Na’Shie burned. Huge pillars of flame cast an unwanted flickering light upon the carnage of the besieged port city, a light reflected in the black eyes of the Zaur invaders.
General Tsan watched the scene with quiet joy, his scales, normally a dull murky red, shone crimson as he basked in the furnace-like heat generated by the burning ships. The reptilian commander twisted his wedge-shaped head from side to side as the Zaurruk battered through the hulls of ships, snatching sailors from their vessels and swallowing them whole. As the giant war serpents turned their attention to the Verdant Passage, Tsan reeled about to face the ship’s captain, his forked tongue tasting the human’s fear and desperation.
The human, a man called Randall Tyree, twisted his face as if to look away but forced himself to watch. Tsan wondered if it was guilt that made the human want to bear witness to the destruction of his crew or simple morbid curiosity.
“What are they?” asked Captain Tyree. He clenched his jaw between words, biting down hard, each utterance an explosive burst of breath.
“Weapons of old,” answered General Tsan. “The Zaurruk sleep in the deep places, Captain, where the warmbloods dare not go.”
Tsan gestured at the sloping entrance to the once-great Zalizian Bazaar, which led down to the docks. A crew of Zaurruk handlers commanded their charges watched by Sri’Zauran guards with black scales banded by narrow scales of iridescent blue. The handlers rhythmically pounded the ground with steel mallets of varying sizes, sending orders to the mighty war serpents below. Each of the crews had their black scales painted with concentric circular patterns of gray and white, matching the patterns on the Zaurruk themselves. A fourth serpent curled itself defensively around the watchtower atop which General Tsan and Tyree stood. Several members of the Port Authority still twitched at Tsan’s feet, angry red lines of poison clearly streaking their skin.
Tsan examined Captain Tyree, smiling at his struggle not to watch his fellow humans’ death throes. The venomous bite of most Zaur was not fatal unless they were in the grip of the mating urge, but Tsan and his kin were different.
Our bite, Tsan thought, is always deadly.
Tsan slapped his tail against the stone roof, and his black-scaled personal guard formed a semicircle blocking the roof access, though Tsan felt he had little need of their protection. The city’s defenders were either dead, dying, or fleeing for their lives.
“Look, Captain.” Tsan pointed to the ruined hulk of the Verdant Passage as the large merchant vessel sank beneath the waves. He spoke the human language with no trace of the usual lisp caused by a Zaur’s forked tongue. “Isn’t that your ship?”
“You know it is, you scaly bastard!” The captain launched himself at Tsan, only to be restrained by the general’s quick-clawed lieutenant. “You said the Verdant Passage would be spared!”
Tsan laughed, too pleased with victory to lose his good humor over the foolish insults of an overly emotional warmblood. Besides, the human had been most useful.
“I said that if they stayed put, as arranged, I would spare them,” the general corrected. “They attempted to flee. My troops had orders to set ablaze any ship that tried to run. Blame your first mate, not me.” Tsan dropped to all fours and slithered along the floor. “I always keep my bargains.”
As Tsan rose up before him, Captain Tyree recoiled involuntarily, leaning back as far as the Zaur restraining him would allow, but Tsan had no intentions of striking. He plucked a small spyglass from the case on Tyree’s belt and propped his forelegs on the edge of the tower. Raising the glass to his eye, Tsan watched the crew, those who’d survived thus far, swimming as hard as they could, striving to get enough distance to avoid being sucked in by the vacuum resulting from their sinking vessel. The docks were in ruins, except for the southernmost pier, where dark shapes continued the fight.
They were his soldiers, magnificent in their armor, each carrying a bow, their angular Skreel blades sheathed at their sides. The Zaur who led them was like no Zaur any of these warmbloods would have ever seen. Slightly taller than the others, the leader sported scales with alternating rings of amber and pale blue. His head, like Tsan’s, was more angular and pointed than his fellow soldiers, almost like an arrowhead.
“Release him,” the general ordered.
Tsan’s lieutenant complied, favoring the captive human with a threatening hiss. His long forked tongue flickered across Captain Tyree’s throat. The captain was no longer afraid. The man had gone from grief to acceptance so quickly that Tsan marveled despite himself at the human’s adaptability.
“I’m not your type,” Tyree protested, pushing the lieutenant’s muzzle away from his neck. “I’m afraid I don’t foam up or lay eggs. You’re cute though—don’t let anyone tell you you’re not.”
Tsan offered the spyglass back to Captain Tyree but was not surprised when he declined. The ground shook as the Zaurruk pulled back from the harbor, and Tsan hissed happily as the troops swooping in behind them dumped barrels of oil into the water and set it afire. Tsan could not hear the screams from this distance, but from Tyree’s expression, he thought the human hear
d them.
“I will reimburse you for the cost of your vessel and its crew, Captain,” General Tsan said softly. “It wasn’t fair to expect them to remain rational in the presence of the Zaurruk.”
He lowered the spyglass and smiled at the surprised human. “A royal kandit per crewman,” he offered, “ten for your navigator, two for your cook, thirty for your cargo, and . . . shall we say eighteen hundred for your ship?”
General Tsan watched the human run the numbers in his head. Humans were so adaptable; bending them this way and that was a hatchling’s game. But Tyree . . . Tsan wondered if it wouldn’t be wiser to kill the human now. If the human gave him an excuse, that’s exactly what he would do, but almost as if Tyree sensed his thoughts, the human calmed further. The threat in his tensed muscles eased away. The human met Tsan’s gaze and smiled.
“That would be most generous. Thank you,” Captain Tyree finally agreed. “Though if I could have some of that in Zalizian scrip . . .”
So adaptable.
Tsan conceded with a flick of his tail. Let the human have his foreign scrip. Let him live, too. If all went well, by the time he received his payment, the good captain would beg to accept Zaur coin. “I assume you brought the information I asked for?” Tsan held out his hand.
Captain Tyree pulled a battered notebook from his leather pouch and handed it to the Zaur. “It’s all there.”
Warlord Xastix’s plan had worked perfectly. Weeks of waiting for the wind to die had paid off in blood, casualties, and total devastation for the port. When the Eldrennai sent to Zaliz for aid, none would be forthcoming. The next nearest northern port on the Cerrullic Coast was Klinahn, and they would be much less likely to send assistance once word reached them concerning the fate of Na’Shie.
Tsan gestured at the lieutenant who had restrained Tyree so readily. “Take Captain Tyree and the census data he has provided us to the warlord. Once the information has been verified, pay him the agreed-upon amount, mark him as a scale-friend, and let him go. He has been of great service to the Zaur.”
“Once it has been verified? C’mon, Tsan, you won’t know if it’s correct until you’ve invaded!” the human protested sharply, saliva spattering Tsan’s scales as he shouted.
“You would prefer I back out on our offer and throw you from the tower?” Tsan asked, casually rubbing the human’s spit into his dry scales. Who said humans weren’t useful?
“I think I’ll pass on that one, Your Scaliness.” Tyree offered Tsan a curt bow.
“Perhaps you would like to feed one of the Zaurruk?”
“Now you’re just being nasty.”
“Then be happy we are going to honor our deal. Once the Eldrennai have been eliminated, you will be a very rich man and you will have the gratitude of the most powerful empire on the continent. Surely that won’t be such a terrible burden?”
The sour scent of despair, flavored with the bitter taint of disillusionment, floated on the breeze, but Tsan saw the careful way the human maintained exterior calm, forcing his eyes to meet Tsan’s. Such composure.
“It seems that I must again thank the general for his generosity.”
“You are quite welcome, my friend.” General Tsan nodded to the Zaur lieutenant and handed him the book of census data. “Be swift. The warlord wants this information immediately.”
“I will let nothing detain us, General,” his underling answered.
“Perform this task well, Lieutenant,” Tsan promised, “and you will have earned a name.”
Pride swelled the chest of the younger Zaur, and his second eyelid nictated in surprise. “Yes, General.”
“When next we meet,” Tsar murmured, sliding his foreclaw along the scales between the lieutenant’s eyes, “I hope to call you Lieutenant . . . Kreej.”
The future Lieutenant Kreej eyed Captain Tyree so fiercely that Tsan was forced to stifle a chuckle. Kreej was a good name, but not a great name. This one would work hard to get a new one. Names were addictive to young Zaur. Being called by an identifier strictly referring to their birth order and parentage—the seventh hatchling of the eighth brood of Yat, for example—was so tedious most Zaur would do almost anything to gain their first name. Thereafter, the quest for a second name, a self-chosen name, could be equally inspirational.
Turning his back to the lieutenant and his captive, Tsan waved them both away. “Take four of my personal guards with you, Lieutenant. I will have no further need of them. The port, what is left of it, is ours.”
“To His secret purpose,” the lieutenant said as he turned to leave with his prisoner.
“To His secret purpose,” the general repeated softly. “To His secret purpose indeed.”
CHAPTER 21
SPARING CAIUS
Kholster frowned at the unconscious Long Arm and her child. Both of them were badly crystal twisted, the mother from abusing the crystallized essence of Dienox, and the offspring from birth because of the mother’s abuses.
“His eyes.” Rae’en looked a little worse for wear from her most recent bout of Arvash’ae. Kholster expected it had less to do with the Arvash’ae itself (she’d definitely eaten her fill) and more to do with finding parts of the third body afterward. The one in the barn. Kholster’d felt the hostage’s death through his link with Grudge but felt no guilt. They’d not known about her going into the battle, and certainly in Torgrimm’s hands she’d be safe from further harm. Kholster trusted the Harvester to assist her with her trauma far more than he trusted himself. “The baby has reds instead of whites.”
Kholster unswaddled the exhausted, mewling infant from the smoke-smelling blanket and examined him.
Can you tell how old it is? he thought at Vander.
No, but Okkust says it’s around five months.
If any of the Armored are likely to know . . . Kholster let the thought trail away.
Stunted bat-like wings grew out of the child’s shoulder blades. It was too early to tell if they would grow big enough to be useful, but the child did seem unnaturally light, so it might be possible. More worrisome, though, was the rounded indentation at the boy’s sternum.
He’s shard-slotted. Kholster thought at his Overwatch.
Kill it? Vander thought back. The last thing we need is another human the Ghaiattri can trick into using a shard of the World Crystal to open a Wild Gate.
“Is he going to be okay?” Rae’en asked.
“If we let him live.” Kholster swaddled the child as he spoke. “He will be unique, good at whatever trade he tries, and eventually, when the Ghaiattri notice him, he must either become a very good person or a very bad person. His life will affect all Barrone.”
“Of course we’ll let him live, right?” Rae’en’s eyes went not to the baby or to her father but to the barn. “It’s just a baby.”
You want to let her kholster this decision, too? Vander asked.
If he’s ever a problem, Vander, he’ll be a problem after she is First . . .
You could show her what happened with Omric . . .
I could, but this is a child, not Omric. I do not wish to make her decisions for her. She has to learn how choices made in one year, particularly those involving life and death, echo through time. And she must make her own decisions about whether those choices were mistakes or not. Do you disagree?
No, Vander sighed. I just hope those wings don’t work. Can you imagine how much trouble Omric would have been with wings?
I can’t see how it would have changed the war all that much.
“Kholster?” Rae’en asked.
Spattered in blood, she looked tired and worn and worried. Kholster thought back to all the times he’d come out of the Arvash’ae to find he’d arvashed someone he hadn’t meant to harm. Such a hard lesson to learn. Her mind had to be in turmoil, the blaming and denying blame . . . though her outer layer of skin no longer required a gambeson, Kholster knew the inner Aern was less easily armored from self-inflicted wounds.
“How’s your finger?” he asked.
“Fine.” She held it up. Everything had grown back but the nail. That would come in a day or so. Three human livers appeared to have filled the order nicely. If she were Armored, she could have just . . . Kholster banished the thought. There was no Life Forge. There would be no Life Forge. The Freeborn could not go through life wishing for one, nor could their parents.
“Then it’s up to you.” Kholster offered her the wriggling bundle. “But I’m not changing its crapcatcher or washing it or feeding it.”
As if to emphasize Kholster’s point, the baby’s face went still and serious. There was a burbling liquid sound from his nether regions.
“It doesn’t smell bad,” Rae’en said, taking the child as Kholster unceremoniously dumped him into her outstretched arms.
“Then his mother must still be nursing him.” Kholster walked over to the unconscious woman. She looked soft and peaceful when she wasn’t setting him on fire. He tugged on the green brigandine with which she’d attempted to shield her son during their leap through the second-story window and wondered if that was the only reason she’d saved it, or if it had belonged to the man she’d called Hap. It was too large to be hers. “When they start eating solid food, Gromma puts the stink in.”
“How do you know about human babies?” Rae’en asked.
“I’m over six thousand years old,” Kholster answered. “Some Aern have adopted human infants in that time. Even me. If we kill the mother, we’ll have to find something the baby can eat. Usually mashed-up vegetables or rice.”
“No meat?”
“No teeth,” Kholster answered.
“Can’t we just find some cow milk or—”
“Yes, but cow milk can kill human babies unless you heat it correctly first.”
“Why?”
“The Dwarves say there are tiny little beasts that live in it, too small to see. The heat kills them. And it will still make the feces stink.”