by Kim Wedlock
Increasingly weary glances were exchanged behind the irritating historian.
"In short," Rathen summarised as his lip curled in disdain, "I'm not getting very far - yet. I've not finished reading through it." He nodded assuringly at the inquisitor as he received a measuring look. "Just give me time."
Garon exhaled sharply as he turned away, and dropped his voice so low that not even Petra, who until a few days ago paid him such close attention, would hear his pessimistic remark.
Half an hour later, with the decrepit, bandit-infested village long out of sight, they pitched their tents among a tall, dusty outcrop of spire-like rocks. Starlight was shut away as equally as their cooking fire, and as shadows flickered fervently across the tightly standing stones, they each sought to escape those pressing walls in their usual desperate activities. Eyila meditated, seated so precariously at the top of the tallest and narrowest spire that it was a wonder she dared to close her eyes, while Garon patrolled at the foot and Petra set about making food with Aria, who comically over-sighed every few minutes to try to catch the attention of her father. Rathen, oblivious to the localised wind, continued to study the translations Anthis had given him with an expression twisted in thought. Anthis was the only one absent from the group, but that was no surprise. Every night he made a hasty retreat into his tent the very second it was standing up straight, regardless of food or the growling of his belly, and as sure as the moon hung in the sky, he was inside poring over his own research.
Except he wasn't.
Just as the stone concealed the stars and the cooking fire, so too it concealed his exit.
After traversing a desert for over a week, a rocky escarpment had no shortage of landmarks, and so it wasn't difficult to retrace their steps, even while his mind raced ahead in excitement and his hand twitched eagerly and constantly towards the untucked hem of his shirt. But it was far too soon to draw, and he wasn't going to let anticipation get the better of him. He was too experienced to succumb to that.
He tightened his fists and focused instead on light, ghostly footsteps. He knew his target; he knew the precise distance and what level of skill it would take to achieve his goal. But while he never moved without a plan, this time he'd formed them for even the least likely course of events. This was far from his first hunt, but in such terrain, he was out of his element, and further gone than he had ever let himself get before. He'd managed through necessity to conceal it from the others, but this, he had no doubt, was what the first man to sputter the syllables had experienced.
He pushed it from his mind and moved on silently through the black and silver desert, but where before his company had swung wide to avoid the broken walls, through which he now saw several scattered, orange glows, he remained close to the dark and ragged edge of the landscape and made directly for it.
His hands were shaking, but his footing was sure, and though his eyes remained fixed on the moon-bathed village, he was so acutely aware of the three gems in his dagger's hilt that he may as well have been staring at it. But he couldn't. He hardly dared to look, and when he did find the fleeting courage to pull it from his waistband, hoping against hope that their state had improved without him in the last three minutes, he found instead that, even in the obscuring glare of the watchful moon, they remained darker than an endless abyss and filled him with a far greater terror.
That terrible sight only steeled his resolve. Even had his fear been for what lay ahead of him rather than the implications of what he clutched in his hand, he had no choice but to continue, or lose his mind completely.
Suddenly the village stood right before him. His steps didn't falter; his focus sharpened, fret for the dagger and his own state forgotten in favour of success.
Taking a moment to listen, he slipped silently through a narrow break in the outer wall and melded immediately into the nearest shadow, pressing himself against the stone of a ruined home before sweeping across it to keep to the edge of the village. He made a circuit along the wall, following the near-tangible traces he sensed of individual presences, and peered between buildings both towards and away from any light to mark the inhabitants visually as he went. There were no more than twenty - a large number for such a company, even despite the size of their residence. The trade route must indeed have provided well. Most of them were loitering within the light of three campfires, but the few who wandered on patrol were barely attentive, scuffing their feet as they went. Their confidence in their fortress wouldn't be the sole cause of their undoing, but it would certainly contribute.
He smiled to himself as he soaked up the sensations. He was spoilt for choice; every presence he felt held the same great value - so he resolved to choose the nearest. Focusing himself in on the presence of the approaching scout, he withdrew the plainest of the two daggers from its sheath, ignoring as he did so the phantom twinge through the parallel scar across his abdomen, drawing it so silently it was as if the blade held its breath with him in anticipation. Then he paused for just a moment, half a heartbeat, before flickering forwards through the darkness like a spectre, quite unaware of the increasingly wolfish smile that broke his face. There followed only the slightest snitch and grunt as its edge flashed true across the throat of his target.
Anthis's palm was already clamped firmly over the dusty man's mouth, stifling any exclamation that would alert those standing only ten feet away, laughing, eating and drinking in their ignorance. He knew they could find him quickly, they knew the village, its dead ends and the areas half-attentively patrolled, and he had no intention whatsoever of being interrupted.
A swift kick to the back of the knee sent the bandit to the ground, and though panic and confusion gleamed in his eyes more brightly than the sun, Anthis did not see it. His desperate mind had focused almost to the point of oblivion; his single concern was the blood that poured from the man's neck - not so shallow a cut that he could fight back, but not so deep that he'd bleed out too soon. He knew exactly how long he'd live with an injury of that practised depth and precision, and he equally knew how long he had to act. Necessity forced his excruciating impatience away.
He removed his hand from the man's face. He wouldn't shout for help now, nor would he kick and scream. He was more than familiar with the onset of shock. It never varied; he could predict it to a second, and once it set in, his victory and the loathsome individual's demise were secure.
Anthis smothered his ardour, tore the dying rogue's left sleeve from cuff to elbow and discarded the bloodied dagger on the ground. His own left arm was already bare, having rolled up his sleeve in anticipation before crossing the wall, and excitement threw his heart back into his throat as he frantically pulled the second dagger, jewelled and naked, free from his belt.
The wonderful moment had finally come - but his hands still didn't shake. Even as the bandit reached out in a final weak and pitiful attempt to swat him away, gargling dismally in place of a shout for help or declaration of innocence, Anthis easily caught his wrist and drew the keen edge of the blade slowly and clinically along the inside of his forearm. It made no difference that the night obscured the guiding blue-green line of the median antebrachial vein, he could have followed it just as precisely blindfolded as in full daylight.
As blood began to bead and trickle and the man looked on in silent, slipping terror, ancient words began to form on Anthis's lips, loosed without thought, drawn out by routine. "Dozhuuk aus vulan," he murmured as he worked open the vein, "iinkravahz suruustin." Slowly, he reached the elbow. A moment before the crook, he stopped and turned the dagger's point towards himself. "Dovat aus sekhisiin Vokaad." The man finally fell still under the blanket of shock while Anthis punctured his own scarred skin, tracing along the same line with total disconnection. "Dokreyt," he did not even bar his teeth, as though the limb he cut with his abyssally jewelled dagger was not his own, as though the blood that mixed with the stranger's had not come from his veins, "aus kreyakhan lehzanzi Vokaadu."
He stopped again just before the cro
ok, and the instant the steel left his flesh, the dying man released his final breath and a curious elation numbed Anthis's senses as suddenly as if he'd been kicked by a horse.
Tremors rattled through his fingers, dropping the blade as his head began to swim. Heat rushed through his legs, his chest, his arms, but it was a familiar and welcome warmth, and though it drained him completely of his bearings, as it always did, he smiled a dizzy, lustful smile, and shuddered in his bliss as his desperation melted away.
But all too soon, a shout snapped him back to the darkness.
A viciously spiteful sneer marred his face as he spun in the direction of the approaching presence. This equally valuable soul was sure to raise the alarm if it saw him, and that would obliterate the joy of this easy kill. He'd barely had the chance to relish it as it was.
His snarl worsened as his malice increased, and that, joined with the white-hot power that pumped through his body, forced him into action.
He snatched up his daggers and vanished into the black as the next bandit walked around the corner, and he dispatched her just as quickly and easily as the first. But the sensation from claiming this soul was only a fraction of the first. He was already sated; this was nothing more than vengeful indulgence.
But Vokaad was still receiving the offerings, and though he was paying a pittance for them in return, they would be put to use. And that, Anthis was forced to remind himself, was what mattered.
And so, when a third followed the second around a corner, searching for her as well as the first, he seized the opportunity and claimed his life, too.
As he lost his balance in this most recent rush and staggered against the wall, he half-realised through his bliss-fogged mind just what he had gotten himself into. More would follow. By killing the woman out of spite rather than vanishing into the night as he'd planned, he had grasped the attention of the whole encampment. Within moments the presences he could feel spread throughout the area would converge on him, following the voices calling out for their delayed comrades, then the shouts of alarm. He could evade them, he could still escape; Vokaad had given him the means to sense a valuable soul, and that in turn meant that he could map the area of threats and make a retreat...
But...the world would not lament the loss of these individuals.
His grip on both hilts tightened in decision. This contemptible band would fall.
He melted into the shadows as two more thugs arrived at the location, but rather than strike, he moved off towards the two furthest and opened their veins instead. The alarm was raised as the second fell and the gang converged on the first two bodies. He tracked around, picking off the outermost, seen and heard by none.
But with every arm incised, every rite incanted, and every re-opening of his own vein as it sought to knit itself back together, he became slower. His focus clouded, he stumbled in dizziness, his gifted sense blunted in the confusion and he had to stifle his elated laughter after every reap. He'd never taken more than two lives in any single situation. He'd never needed to. And now, some small and distant part of him wished that was still the case.
But he could handle it. Even as the bandits smartened up and gathered around one fire rather than spreading out and chasing shadows, he could handle it.
He crouched behind a broken well just beyond the light's reach, raised his hand, baring his palm towards them, and managed to concentrate his mind enough to shape an intention at its centre. A dull thump expanded through the air to stun the gathering, and in that moment, he charged. He slit their throats one after the other, removing each of them as a threat. But it was far from perfect. Two he had cut too deep, and though he tried to claim their souls first, they bled out before he could finish even the second line. He'd lost another in the time he'd wasted on them, but the final six still lay on the ground, grasping at their severed throats.
Now he could enjoy it. Now he could lose himself in the sensation of every reward Vokaad bestowed upon him: the power, the strength, the fervour. He laughed a most elated laugh, there was no more need to stifle it, and in his joy he cackled, chuckled and sighed without care. Nothing mattered. He was surrounded by corpses and blood flowed freely from his own body, but nothing mattered. Not the blood pouring from his open vein - the gifted magic was closing it back up already - nor the blood that leaked from his side.
His laughter only lightened as he looked down at the dark fluid that coated his hand, glistening in the fire light, and he had the capacity only to distantly wonder when it had happened, as well as what the impact was he'd just felt behind him, and at the sudden difficulty he found in breathing.
Fortunately, comprehension of the string of Ivaean curses spat into his ear came much quicker, and his startled mind cleared fast enough to react.
As the wire around his throat tightened and began to choke his breath away, he raised his hand and showed her his bloody palm. She began to say something, perhaps a jibe, perhaps genuine concern from a sudden change of heart, but whatever it was, it was cut short as she was thrown back and off of him by another bassy thump.
Freed, he intended to leap up and finish her, but instead his body stalled and doubled over in its effort to reclaim his breath, leaving him only distantly aware of the pain across his neck if not the blood the wire had drawn when it snapped. But there was no time to waste - even as he hacked and retched, he knew that. Vokaad's gift would protect him. He would have to trust in it.
His throat scored and his breath ragged, he grasped his dagger and shoved himself back to his feet only to be slammed right back down. The woman shrieked as she savaged him, but though the shrill sound was an undoubtedly effective stun, his mind was still too fogged for it to reach him. He managed, somehow, to throw her off of him, and though she was upon him again immediately with a knife in each hand, he had turned over and could finally return every blow his unearthly magic deflected. He didn't try to daze her and claim her soul for Vokaad, though it was, no doubt, the most valuable of all he had been presented with that night. He was too tired, and he had done enough. As it was, he doubted he'd make it back to the camp. He wouldn't die, that was certain - his kind were paid in magic for a reason - but finding his way back in the dark with his focus so shattered was quite impossible.
But if he didn't...
No, he had to get back.
He had to get back, get inside his tent, and pretend he hadn't left. Otherwise they would come looking for him, and with such a still air, his tracks would remain. Eyila couldn't miss them. And then they'd find him, and then they'd know...
He shoved the limp and lifeless body off of himself and clutched at the stab wound above his hip. The blood was still running heavily. He'd never suffered such an injury in tribute before, and he wondered, as he tore strips from the dead woman's clothing to staunch it as best he could, if the magic would be enough this time.
But he had to trust. He had to have faith.
He tied off the final binding, and after quickly wrapping his already healing forearm, collected his daggers and rose carefully to his feet. He hissed with the movement, but he wasn't sure if it actually hurt. It should have, he knew that much, but...did it?
He laughed. It didn't matter.
He staggered against a wall and tried to shake away the haze. He had to get back, that's what mattered, and he needed to focus. Just for the moment.
He looked about himself slowly and finally made for the south - then stopped after three stumbling steps and turned to his right. He managed a few paces further before deciding south was correct after all - assuming, of course, that south was south.
He shook his head again and decided to disregard direction. Get out, that's what he had to do first. Get to the walls, leave the village, and then follow the rocky outcrops. As long as the village remained on his right while he followed the small cliffs, he would be going the right way...
Chapter 44
Aya'u's soft caress came as ribbons brushing over bare, bronze skin; all that was simple, eternal and pure conv
eyed in a brief, single contact that slowed the heart and set the soul at ease. The scent of the mountains was carried on its tail - crisp air, wooded slopes, the musk of rutting deer - and transported the mind away for miles in an instant, as if the spirit and wind were one.
Eyila sighed softly, lost in the peace and freedom her goddess always granted her when she gave herself to the elements, and a soft, contented smile graced her lips.
What a wonder the past two weeks had been. Given leave from the village at last for more than simply gathering herbs, she'd enjoyed the company of some highly unusual people and, above all else, had finally been free to meditate openly. For two years she'd been forced to hide it, to sneak out and offer reverence after dark while appearing to bend to the chief's forbiddance and focus on her healing. So it was a refreshing change to feel Aya'u's loving touch without the fear of being caught - a return to what should have been the norm.
She knew she would sorely miss it when she returned, so she was glad she'd taken advantage of the opportunity, even if not to the extent she'd have liked. Her company had been good enough not to interrupt her when she settled into the paths of the strongest air currents, but their very presence remained a hindrance. It was for their modesty rather than her own that she settled for the bare essentials, keeping covered the areas of her body they might take offence to while freeing all else to the elements.
But Aya'u seemed to understand. There was no decrease in Her affection.
She sighed again as her heart floated in serenity, but she soon noticed a tightness above her eyes, then the small crease that had formed in her white-painted brow. A very slight change had also befallen the breeze - one impossible by nature alone. Her focus dragged reluctantly back to her surroundings.
She opened her eyes to the starlight and followed the air's new northward course. Her sight adjusted quickly, and in the same short instant that she spotted the dark form moving irregularly through the sand in the near distance, another sensation grazed her, one she'd last felt only in Rathen's company. But Rathen, she knew - could feel just as clearly - was down in the camp behind her.