by Martin Davey
Marin nodded a curt greeting to the great helm, rust starting to show near the eye slits. Deima looked at the two of them before turning to disappear into the cool shade of the tent. “I don’t want any of your talk in there. Nothing about the Paramin or bathing in blood or anything.” Marin kept his voice low as he looked at Retaj. The younger man looked remarkably unruffled by the fact that he had not long ago been fighting to the death with a Canaristi. Marin spat again on the ground, a thick brown gob of spit landing in the grass. He reached into his pouch for another ferris root. Empty. His head felt cold and his throat started to burn. He scratched at his throat, feeling the knots Areen had fastened to close the wound.
“Believe me, that’s one lady I will be on my best behaviour with,” Retaj murmured even as Deima stooped out of the tent. His dull silver breastplate was dented at the shoulder. Marin wondered if that was one of the blows Deima had landed as he killed the original owner.
“Go on in.” Deima’s voice sounded hollow behind the great helm.
Marin wiped the back of his hand across his forehead and couldn’t help having one last search in his pocket for more ferris root. Still none there. He bowed his head and entered the tent, Retaj close behind him.
The first time Marin had entered the Mahrata’s tent, he had been driven to his knees and had his throat slit wide open. His welcome this time was more accommodating. “My two travellers return.” The Mahrata straightened from the table she had been stooped over, her hair falling over her ear as she had studied the maps with Areen and Darl by her side. Two torches burned in the corners and empty chairs had been cast aside as they all stood to look at the maps. Rows of painted bowls sat still and silent on a cabinet with glass doors. Marin couldn’t help wondering if any of these contained his own life’s blood. The two southerners straightened from the table and looked at Marin and Retaj, said nothing.
The Mahrata’s dress was a deep, shimmering red today, a colour she was beginning to wear more and more. It was loose at the neck, her arms bare and slender. Her eyes widened as she saw Marin. He tried not to scratch at his neck under that copper and brown and gold gaze. Her dress clung to her body as she moved to them, she was barefoot, Marin noticed, and that knowledge made him ache in the very pit of his stomach. She held out a smooth, pale arm to them and Marin fell to his knees, almost surprised to hear Retaj do the same behind him.
He looked down at the ground, the dry grass of brown and yellow trodden flat, and then he felt a warm hand land on his shoulder, a touch that reverberated throughout his very being, pulsing in his blood as the voice had when he faced his own death. He looked up and saw the Mahrata smiling down at him, her hair cascading about her face, framing the beauty in a halo of a colour between brown and red. A beauty almost painful to look at. Her eyes moved from his face and down to his neck and shoulders and chest. What did she see? A spotted scalp with wispy grey hair, a neck sagging with papery tendons, round shoulders lined with scars and a chest with drooping breasts and thick wiry white hair. Marin wanted to hide from the glorious beauty standing over him.
The smile remained, her teeth white and her lips a demure red, but her eyes softened, their radiance dimmed. Her hand trailed down from his thin hair, down his grizzled, bristled cheek, down his neck stitched tight with thread. “You’ve been hurt.” The words were soft, hushed with breathless wonder as she found the blood on Marin’s chest. A single finger slowly trailed through the blood, the nail light on his skin and sending a shiver through Marin’s soul. She lifted the finger up in the light, the blood dark on the pale skin and, for one horrifying, fascinated moment, Marin thought she was going to lick her finger. He was almost disappointed when she only held the finger before her face as though breathing in the scent of the blood before rubbing her hands together. “You were hurt, but you prevailed and came back to me,” she said, her voice as rich and delicate and beautiful as her skin. “As I knew you would.”
Marin felt like a hound still kneeling before her, but he wouldn’t think to rise before she bid him to do so. “There are Canaristi in the mountains. A camp of them. Three hundred, maybe more. They are the ones who have been killing the Seekers, Shalih.” Shalih. Marin wasn’t even sure what the word meant, though he had heard some of the southerners calling the Mahrata by the title. Why had he used it? Why did he kneel before her? Was it part of the bloody ritual she had performed on him? He shook his head, his hands trembling as his throat burned and cried out for some ferris root.
“Ah.” The Mahrata frowned and turned it into an expression of beauty. “The Canaristi.” She turned away, allowing Marin and Retaj to rise with a motion of her hand; the hand without the blood, the other she held clasped to her breast. “Servants of the Keepers, sent to do their bidding.”
Marin remembered flame-licked walls shimmering orange in the darkness, a shaved head beaded with sweat, tattoos horrible and black on the scalp. And Beratak’s eyes, wild and crazed as he pushed his face to Marin’s, spittle stinking and white on his lips and teeth. “I don’t think they are the servants of the Keepers, Shalih.” It took all his effort to question the Mahrata. He fought against the urge to bow his head and beg forgiveness. “I have had some...some experience with the Canaristi on my travels, Shalih. They weren’t formed by any gods and I’ve never heard tell of them being acknowledged by the Keepers. They were formed some years ago by a madman called Aaric Wategh. His son, Beratak leads them now. Or he did the last I heard.” Marin blinked the sweat from his eyes, his vision of the gloried Mahrata swimming before him, her blue dress a cool pool he could dive in, her face a smeared pink like a smudged watercolour on canvas. The pool of clear blue water moved closer, sparkling and glinting in the sunlight, waves gentle and pure and rippling as it moved. Something pale and graceful reached out of the water and stroked his cheek, he turned his face to it and felt something slipped between his teeth, something cool stroke his lips and close his mouth.
He chewed, trying not to gasp as the salving coolness oozed down his throat. Retaj was speaking, “...three hundred now, but if we go into the mountains now, they’d never dare challenge us. They have women and children of their own. They’re only after the loners, after the easy kills.”
“And time is slipping away from us, Shalih,” Areen said. His nose was taking some time to heal. The blonde southerner’s eyes still shadowed by the faint purple of old bruises and his nose would always be crooked.
Did the Mahrata look to her cabinet of bloody bowls when he said this, the faintest of frowns creasing her brow? Marin wasn’t sure, all he wanted to do was press his forehead to the cool grass. He chewed the ferris root, feeling the thick brown gunk sliding down his throat. He wanted to spit, but he could never do such a thing in front of the Mahrata. Instead he swallowed a bitter chunk of the root and thought of dark gods with dark eyes wandering through a forest full of watchful birds with giant wings and cruel beaks, with nervous creatures flitting through the shadows, antlers tall and crooked highlighted by a yellow moon.
“And what do you think, Marin?” The Mahrata turned her brown and gold and copper gaze to him. “Could we make it further into the mountains or will the Canaristi fall upon us?”
Teeth broken and crooked, breath stinking of raw meat and ale, a foul voice telling of the glory of the Keepers. “Whatever happens, whether they were only two and we were two thousand, we’d still have them to contend with.” Marin slid the ferris root into the corner of his mouth as he spoke. “They think we betray the gods by seeking the source of those drums.” Even now, the ground beneath his feet shook in sympathy with the beat of the drums.
“And what of you, Marin? Do you think we betray the gods?”
Marin could feel every pair of eyes turn to him. He chewed his ferris root and scratched at his neck, watching the Mahrata as he did. No expression on that smooth pale face. He swallowed some more bitter chunks and his head felt light, as though filled with sun-bright smoke. “I think the Canaristi are madmen and should be made to pay for the See
kers they have killed.”
The Mahrata smiled a small smile, tilting her head to Marin, a stray lock of hair falling across her forehead. “Just so. And you will be the one to lead our soldiers into the fight, my Garanin, my reborn.” She stroked his face again and Marin leaned into the touch, his eyes closed.
Another image, a small pale hand stroking a face, no, not a face: a skull. A skull with dry red flesh clinging to the white bone, the eyes black and empty, the teeth broken and smiling a smile of countless horrors. And still that small hand stroked the skull, the back of the delicate fingers brushing against the flaps of skin, sending it to falling to dust and flaking away.
Marin opened his eyes and met the Mahrata’s own. It was the first time she had allowed him to meet her eyes without looking away. She smiled but Marin saw only sadness and regret. “What have you done to me?” he whispered. He tried to sound angry, but it only sounded fearful and full of sorrow.
The Mahrata pulled her hand away, the same sad smile on her face. “I have done what had to be done.” She spoke quietly, her words only for Marin. “How many men do we have, Darl?” she said more loudly.
“Two hundred and forty-seven fighting men,” the big southerner replied. Marin had almost forgotten how big the man actually was. It was one of the few wise decisions he had made in his life when he laid down his sword without challenging the brute.
“It’s enough,” Retaj said. “If we take the Canaristi by surprise, we could beat them, force our way through the mountains.”
“We do have four teams out looking for more Seekers. We could wait for them to return,” Areen said.
Marin scratched at his neck and chewed his ferris root. And still the drums beat on. “And what if they bring back fifty men?” His voice sounded hoarse, his throat scraped raw by the ferris root. He scratched at his throat, one of the knots had become loose and blood trailed down his neck. He wiped the blood away with the back of his hand. “We’ll have closer to their numbers but still we won’t be able to beat the Canaristi. They live by the sword. They kill and rape and torture as a way of life. How many of us know how well our men fight?” He looked around at all the men in the tent, an old man with a bare chest thick with wiry white hair, blood smearing his chest and arms, and his throat stitched tight with brown thread. Nobody had any answer for him. “And if we did win, what then? Because the Canaristi will never surrender to us. They think we betray their gods, they will fight us to the last man. And what then?” He looked around them all again. All except the Mahrata; he knew if he looked at her, he would fall to his knees again and fall silent. “We die, they die,” he shrugged, “And at the end of it there will be what? A score, two score left to make their way into the mountains. And who knows what waits there? We would all die, just some more quickly than others.”
“We are all dead, to one extent or another.” Why did Retaj look at Marin when he said that? Marin met his friend’s stare until the younger man looked away, looking to the Mahrata, Areen and Darl. “There may be another way into the mountains. But it might be difficult, especially for the women and children. For all of us, really.” Rarely had Marin seen Retaj look so unsure.
All three of the southerners stared at Retaj. “And you thought to keep this from us?” Darl shouted, marching at Retaj as though he was willing to slit his throat there and then. Areen was right behind him, looking as though he was willing to lend a hand.
“Bache.” A single word from the Mahrahta was enough to stop the men, still staring at Retaj. The Mahrata took two steps forward, her dress swaying about her ankles and clinging to her body. Two small hands rested on the taut-muscled arms of the southerners. “Another way?” she said to Retaj, one eyebrow raised, the tent falling into silence, all eyes now on Retaj.
“I said there may be,” Retaj looked flushed in the cheeks, his long red hair dusty and dry. “I’ve never seen it, only heard an old man talking of it when I was last here.” He swallowed, his eyes shadowed in the shifting light of the tent. “But the old man, I think he had the ravings, kept talking of men and women with peeled faces and swords the colour of a setting sun and trees bleeding dark blood.” Retaj tried to smile, Marin had never seen him so nervous. “Me and my friends kicked his arse and threw branches at him and he kept circling around and coming back like a beaten dog, shouting at us and telling us about these Blood Waiters or something. I think we were too kind on him really, it looked like he’d been bothering some others as well because he had all these strange cuts over his body like somebody had been cutting him without wanting to kill him and he had half his ear hanging away. I’ll never forget that ear,” Retaj paused to look around the tent and saw the southerners had fallen still, looking at him quietly. He shifted from one foot to the other, “Yes, well, terrible what the ravings can do to a person. But thinking about it, I wouldn’t want to trust our route to a madman wandering the mountains alone, we’re better off trusting the Canaristi, I think.”
Silence as Retaj shuffled some more under the gaze of the southerners.
“Blood Waishimir,” The Mahrata finally breathed. “Servants of the blood.” She smiled and Marin had never seen her so agitated and hopeful before. It made her look younger than he had ever seen her, her beauty becoming radiant as the sun appearing from behind a dark cloud. “Where did the old man say these people were, Retaj?”
Retaj jerked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing vaguely east. “He said a group of them, about twenty I think he said, had found a path into the mountains about ten miles that way, but really...” he shook his head as he glanced to Marin. “I’d almost forgotten about him, but like I said, the ravings...” he shook his head again, “That man was telling some pretty sick stuff about what these Blood Waiters did.”
“Servants of the Blood.” The Mahrata interrupted, her eyes cool, the radiant sun gone behind its cloud once again.
“Yeah, those. You know he said they were kept in cells for a year and they’d be strapped to giant trees and cut open, the blood running...” here Retaj’s eyes, bright in the shadows, slid to the painted bowls in the cabinet and then back again just as quickly. “But like I say, he just had the ravings.”
The Mahrata’s breast shook as she drew a quivering breath, colour tingeing her pale cheeks. “So long,” she looked to either side of her, the two southern sentinels there as always. “So long. “ She touched them both on a hand and Marin felt a strange jealousy stirring at the closeness that touch betrayed. A closeness and a touch that lasted for the merest moment before she spoke again to Retaj, “You could have saved us all some trouble if you’d told us of this before.”
Retaj laughed but there was no humour in it. “Believe me, if I’d told you of every crazy person I’d met on the road these past years, I’d have worn your pretty ears off with the telling.”
The Mahrata wasn’t listening anymore, already she had turned back to the map unrolled on the table and held in place by two knives the same as the one used to cut Marin’s throat. Perhaps one of them was the very same knife.
“They can’t still be there,” Darl said, the big southerner’s leather hauberk creaked as he followed the Mahrata back to the map. “How long ago was this when you found the old man?”
“About ten years,” Retaj said, remaining where he was, behind Marin and the closest to the door of the tent.
Darl nodded. “You never heard of any Servants leaving the city about that time, Shalih?”
The Mahrata shook her head, her hair bright and falling about her face as she looked down at the map, one slender finger tracing a line that Marin couldn’t see. He wondered if he had been dismissed, but knew he would never be able to leave without the Mahrata’s direct permission. He stood where he was and scratched at his throat, swallowed the last of the ferris root and blinked against the sweat stinging his eyes.
The Mahrata was silent as she looked down at the map before she straightened and pushed her hair away from her face. “The last Servants I heard leaving the city were led by a woma
n they called Jermatoah. Some said she had the Sight, that she dreamed of gods that once were and gods that were yet to be. She was thirty years old when she left Ruritan, but some said she looked more like seventy when she left, such was the effect of her dreams on her heart and mind.”
“She dreamed of the Paramin?” Marin was surprised that it was Retaj who asked the question.
So was the Mahrata, it seemed. She gave Retaj a long, appraising look. “So she claimed. She said she had seen where the Blood Lord would be born into this world. That his birth would be heralded by the sound of thunder loud enough to shake the earth. She said that people from all corners of the world would seek to fall to their knees before him as he is born to the land.” The Mahrata smiled to them all, each in turn. Marin had never seen her look so unsure of herself. It only added to her beauty. “And she said she and her Servants would be there to prepare the world for the Lord of the Blood and they would be there to welcome him to the world.
Silence hung over the tent like a shroud. Marin was the first to break the quiet with a cough, his hand raised to his mouth. “How long ago did you see that man? Eleven years?” He glanced to Retaj but didn’t wait for an answer. “They can’t still be there, the Canaristi would have come across them and destroyed them by now. If they haven’t run away.”
The Mahrata frowned, “It is strange that the old man should have escaped like he did. Usually the sacrifice is only complete once it has been bled through and fed to the earth.”
Marin couldn’t help but touch his own neck, feel the knots in the thread there, think about his face and the horror that Retaj and the Canaristi had seen there.