Grief seared Khitajrah, making her forget the throbbing of her muscles and the ache of the knife wound across her hand. She had to force her gaze onward, and what she saw there surprised her. At first, she thought the next grave site was empty, without a marker. Then, her gaze carved through the darkness, outlining a black shaft nearly lost in the dusk. She froze in place, staring until her eyes finally made out the letters she already knew she would find: Bahmyr Harrsha’s-son.
For three days, Khitajrah had known her last son was dead. Huddled beneath the cobbler’s shop, she had mourned him with tears that had stung her eyes to fiery redness. Yet the reality of his grave proved too much. She collapsed to the bench, sobs wracking her body and grief suffocating the bittersweet memories her other sons’ markers had dragged to the surface.
For some time, Khitajrah lay, while dawn turned the sky from red to gray. Finally, she managed to raise her head, and her gaze found the second marker, that of her husband Harrsha. Someone had painted over the scarlet honor that had denoted the high lieutenant’s grave. It now lay as flat and black as Bahmyr’s, except between the letters of his name, where the vandal had not bothered to carefully blot out the remaining spots of red.
Although the agony of Bahmyr’s death ached more deeply, Khitajrah focused on the painted marker. This, at least, gave her a target for her rage. She gripped the metal shaft in both hands and pulled. Hammered by the same blacksmith who made many of the Eastlands’ swords, the marker felt as heavy and sturdy as a blade. Though un-sharpened, the edges dug into Khitajrah’s palms. Bracing her feet, she hauled at the obscene steel stake, needing to get it as far from the remains of her family as possible. Ground shifted beneath the deeply buried point. Then, suddenly, it tore free.
The abrupt change in resistance sent Khitajrah staggering backward. She scrambled for balance, catching it with an agile back-step, her hands still winched around the stake. She loosened her grip, studying the lines of purple-red blood welling beneath her skin, directly matching the edges of the marker. Dirt clung to the tapering barb. She kicked it free.
A man’s voice startled Khitajrah. “Ah, so the pig comes when you lure it with garbage.”
Khitajrah whirled to face the speaker, the stake clutched defensively in her fist. Two men stood on the path, between her and the central hub of the radiating grave sites. She recognized them at once, the way a deer knows the scent of cougar. The larger, Diarmad, had initiated the blame-laying against her husband. The other, Waleis, had brought the charges against her in the women’s court. Both had slaughtered Bahmyr, using knives from behind, while her son had fought an honest battle against guardsmen’s swords.
The two men closed in on Khitajrah, each with a hand on his sword hilt. Diarmad remained directly in front of her. Waleis circled, trapping her between himself and the graves and benches. Diarmad spoke again. “The hunt is over, Khita. We’ve found you, and we have the right to execute your sentence. The law demands that you yield willingly.”
Khitajrah said nothing, feigning calm, the stake lax in her grip. Against swords in veterans’ hands, it would prove little more than no weapon at all, yet she clung to it. Her sense of honor told her that she had no choice but to submit, yet hatred forbade it. The same burning ember that had driven her to petty theft and urging uprising, that had goaded her to resist her sentencing in the courtroom, flared into a wild bonfire. Bahmyr had given his life for hers, and he would not die in vain. It should have gone the other way. I should have and would have traded my life for any of my sons’.
Diarmad drew his sword. “Come here.”
“Wait,” Khitajrah said, needing time to think. To run would be folly. Unless she pushed directly past them, she could only corner herself against the outer wall. She stalled, forming images of the graveyard in her mind.
Diarmad took another step toward her, his huge bulk silhouetted against the grayness, his Eastern-dark features lost in the lingering night. “You may grovel. It is expected.”
The suggestion only fanned the growing fire of Khitajrah’s anger. Suddenly, a presence sparked to life within her, and she no longer felt alone. Though she knew she must be imagining the other, it gave her strength. She shouted. “Expected only by a coward who doesn’t know me. Did you show this same courage in the war? Tell me, how many unarmed civilians did you slaughter?”
Red tinged Diarmad’s features. His stance tightened, wholly on the offensive. “You’re under sentence of execution, Khita. You’re walking the borders of disobedience.”
Walking the borders? Had Khitajrah felt any less desperate, she would have laughed. The thing inside her mind throbbed in amusement. “And you’re walking the borders of manhood. At least my husband bravely faced the woman who killed him, weapon to weapon. And she was a Renshai warrior.”
Waleis watched the exchange, open-mouthed, hand still on his hilt.
Diarmad scowled, his face twisted and ugly with rage. “She was not bound under Eastern law and sentenced to die.”
“Warriors fight. Cowards make excuses.” Khitajrah shoved the sharpened grave marker through her sash with a grand gesture that hid the motion of slipping the utility knife she had taken from the boy into her hand. She kept the hilt curled against her palm, fingers spread and bent to hide it. The blade rested comfortably against her forearm. “All I ask is for a chance to die in fair combat. Nowhere does our law say I can’t ask that nor that you can’t grant it.”
“Nor does it say I must.” Diarmad opened his mouth to say more, but Khitajrah interrupted.
“True, our law allows your cowardice, if you so choose.” She smiled slightly. “My husband earned this for dying at the hands of a warrior.” She gestured to the vandalized stake with her free hand. “If you’re too afraid to face a peasant woman weapon to weapon, I hope there’s enough black paint in all of Stalmize to soak your grave.”
Diarmad’s mouth snapped closed so suddenly, his teeth clicked audibly. He motioned briskly to Waleis. “Give her your sword.”
“What? But . . .?” Waleis started, but Diarmad waved him silent.
“Give her the damned sword!” he roared, then addressed Khitajrah. “I had thought to make this quick and painless. For your impudence, you will know every agony and indignity we can inflict on you.”
Deep within Khitajrah, the thread of unidentifiable being laughed, its disdain transforming Diarmad’s threat to a child’s bluster. Its presence strengthened her, hammering thoughts through Khitajrah’s mind that defied centuries of law, always before accepted without question. It defined every indecency of which even the evil Easterners knew only the barest trifle: lies, blasphemy, and betrayal. Its surge nearly stole Khitajrah’s focus. Though bold, her words sounded strange in her own ears. “Be cruel, then. I would rather this than a helpless death, without honor.”
Diarmad jerked his head toward Waleis, again wordlessly commanding him. This time, the smaller veteran obeyed. He drew his sword one-handed, holding the other arm out before him, his elbow crooked. Taking the blade, he laid the sword across the level surface formed by his other arm, parodying a servant offering a fine wine to a king for inspection. He kept his movements bold and deliberate, a mockery. Neither soldier could see a woman as a threat.
Khitajrah stepped up to Waleis, his position forcing her close to claim the sword. She could see the raised track of a war scar across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. His black eyes seemed depthless. She took the hilt in her left hand.
Waleis tightened his grip on the blade, lips bunching into a smirk. Fully in control, he teased. Clearly, he had not yet chosen whether or not to actually let her have the weapon.
Khitajrah made the decision for him. She whipped up her right hand, slashing the knife across his fingers, feeling the blade gouge flesh to grate against tendon and bone.
Waleis screamed, instinctively releasing the sword and leaping backward. His retreat gave Khitajrah the range she needed. Dropping the knife, she wrapped both fists around his sword hilt. Placing her w
eight on her back foot, she reversed the motion of the heavy blade. It caught him across the throat, a slice without power. Yet the razor sharp edge did its work. Blood fountained from a severed artery, and the soldier crashed to the dirt.
“Demons!” Diarmad’s expletive combined shock, rage, and disbelief. All of his war training could not have prepared him for blatant deceit. For an instant, he hesitated.
Khitajrah seized the moment. She ran. Horror chilled through her, and she could scarcely believe what she had done. Her bare feet sank into the mud. It clutched and clung, hampering every movement, and each sprinting step left a massive hole in her wake. This is madness. I’m running toward a wall. Khitajrah knew she had to change her course, or she would corner herself, but she saw no other direction to run in except toward Diarmad.
Apparently, the soldier had paused to help his dying companion because, when he shouted, his voice came from farther away than she expected. “It’s futile, you wretched, murdering frichen-karboh! Give up now, and I’ll kill you cleanly, though you don’t deserve it.”
*Guile. Use guile. In a straight fight, he’ll kill you.* Though the thought came from Khitajrah’s mind, she did not recognize it as her own. Desperation sped her thoughts. A plan formed, wholly her own, yet deeply-ingrained honor forced her to discard it.
*Do it, Khita.* The command came to Khitajrah more in picture concepts than words.
She argued back, certain she had gone insane. *The law forbids . . .*
*Piss on the law.*
*The world is law. Law is everything.*
*You rallied women, Khita. You killed a defenseless man. You’ve already abandoned law.*
*No more. What I did was wrong.*
*He killed your son.*
The words rekindled the boiling torrent of her rage. Khitajrah struggled against the release from honor her anger promised. *No excuse.*
*They both killed Bahmyr.*
Hatred speared through Khitajrah, shaking her control. She clung to her honor, dredging a response from the deepest core of her being. *The crime I committed shouldn’t exist. A mind capable of creating dishonor must be destroyed.*
The being hesitated. *Where did that come from?*
*I don’t know,* Khitajrah admitted. Other certainties followed as swiftly. Though she had never thought of them before, the ideas felt wholly hers, in a way those of the goading presence never could. *The world is law. It is not prepared to stand against lies and deceptions. I could destroy all of mankind.* Terror chilled through her, and her steps slowed.
*Think of the power!* The alien presence echoed through Khitajrah’s mind. She shrank from its promise.
*I don’t seek power. I don’t want it.* Khitajrah rejected the need with a will so primal she would not have battled it, even had she wanted to.
*Do it, Khita! Live, and I will tell you how to bring Bahmyr back to life.*
Hope cut through Khitajrah’s distress. She quickened her run until she felt as if she flew. She took the remnants of her torn shoe from her pocket, wrapping it around a coin for weight. Then, just beyond sight of her pursuer, she dropped the sword on the pathway. She hurled the rag-wrapped coin to the opposite side of the pathway.
A dozen more running steps brought her to the cemetery wall. She sprang to one of the decorative benches that lined the walk, doubling back over her trail without leaving a print. Mud from her feet broke loose with each movement, but she trusted the last lingering darkness to hide the traces. The huge holes on the muddy path would surely hold Diarmad’s attention more. Once back to the place where she had tossed sword and shoe, she ducked behind the bench and waited.
Khitajrah’s vigil was short. Diarmad appeared, following her trail with ease, his own sword readied in his fist. Apparently noticing Waleis’ sword in his path, he stopped, surely recognizing it instantly. A smile inched across his features. Without a sword, they both knew she had almost no chance at all to put up any kind of fight.
Soundlessly, Khitajrah pulled Harrsha’s grave marker from her sash. It would not last long against honed and tempered steel, but it might serve its purpose. She had had little choice but to use the better weapon as a distraction. Nothing less would have drawn Diarmad’s attention.
Diarmad crouched, reaching for the fallen sword. He kept his attention fixed on the shoe, studying it through gray dawn, blithely turning his back to the real threat. He kept his own weapon clenched in his right hand.
Khitajrah raised the marker and sprang for his back.
Some sound, motion, or soldier’s instincts caused Diarmad to twist toward her. He raised his sword to block.
Instantly, Khitajrah changed her target. The point of the marker cut across the back of his hand, drawing blood. The sword fell from his fingers.
Khitajrah lunged as Diarmad rolled. The marker stabbed through empty air.
The soldier scooped up Waleis’ weapon, catching it in his injured sword hand. “Sheriva’s damnation, you bitch! The god will curse you, and you’ll live out eternity in withering agony.”
Bahmyr had taught Khitajrah never to talk in battle. Though she believed she already had Sheriva’s support and his voice in her head, she did not return Diarmad’s gibes. Instead, she snatched up his fallen weapon, facing him sword to sword, the honest battle neither of them had wanted. Blood ebbed from the man’s hand, staining his hilt and fingers the scarlet of the heroes’ markers.
Diarmad cut for Khitajrah’s head, splashing his own blood in a wide arc. Khitajrah dodged beneath the stroke, then hammered for his injured fingers. He jerked backward, saving his hand, but her sword slammed against his hilt. Though her blow lacked power, blood slicked his grip. The collision, though slight, sent the sword sliding from his fist.
Diarmad dove for his weapon. Khitajrah continued her cut. The sharpened edge of the soldier’s sword in her fist opened his shirt and tore through his abdomen. He crashed to the ground, shrieking.
Khitajrah back-stepped, sides heaving as much from fury as fatigue. “You bastard! You killed my son! You dishonored my husband and my son.” She shoved the sword through her sash, oblivious to the bloody trail it smeared across her clothing. The presence applauded her work, though she did not share its enthusiasm, and it told her to let the enemy die in slow agony.
Khitajrah’s conscience would not allow it, though her rage still drove her to one last act of vengeance. Seizing the painted black grave marker, she drove it through Diarmad’s throat.
Diarmad’s screams turned into a watery choke, then ceased abruptly. His eyes remained opened, as if to stare at the stake that now marked his death, if not his future grave.
The sight revolted Khitajrah. She collapsed, vomiting on the cemetery pathway. The hatred she had held against these men dulled to an ache, but it did not disappear. She turned it inward, despising the deed, the flaw in herself that had allowed her to defy laws millennia old, and the price her lapse might cost the world.
Within her, the alien creature seemed to weaken, and it lunged for the grip her dispersing rage had lost it. *There is more, Khitajrah. Much more.*
*No,* she responded weakly, the questions she had tossed aside converging on her at once. *I’m not crazy. You’re not just a part of me. Are you Sheriva?*
A strange and foreign amusement sifted through her, but Khitajrah did not share the joke. *I am not Sheriva. Sheriva does not exist. He is a construct, a symbol of too long-standing laws we both know should be abandoned.*
*Not abandoned. Changed.* Khitajrah clung to the shaky foundations of her honor, preferring even injustice to lawlessness.
The being ignored the semantics. *I am older than the gods and infinitely more powerful. All of them together cannot keep me at bay forever. I am Chaos. And I am the force that the gods themselves worship.*
* * *
Silence hovered in the single room dwelling on the Cardinal Wizards’ Meeting Isle, every eye on the scene in the Pica Stone. Shadimar watched forest stretch endlessly through the expanse of the clairsentient
sapphire. Colbey crouched, swords readied, like the double sting of an insect. In front of him, the creature known only as a quarack waited. Colbey watched it, his stance confident, his darting eyes revealing his knowledge of its fellows, though they were still hidden by the trees. From his broader perspective, Shadimar could see that the forest seemed alive with movement. Black fur shifted between the trunks as far as the boundaries of the Pica stretched.
“Quarack!” A second creature joined the first within the circle of Colbey’s vision. Shortly, another drew up beside the first two. Then, the squat creatures stepped from the brush in all directions. They appeared from stands of bushes, from around trees, and from beneath the tangled undergrowth. They swarmed, surrounding the Renshai from every side.
Carcophan’s long fingers curled around the table’s edge. “Dead already.” Though soft, his voice shattered the hush, enhancing the smug satisfaction in his tone. “Without magic here, he’s helpless.” His cat’s eyes sparkled, and his broad mouth fanned into a smile. Apparently, he recalled his own trial with the quaracks, though Shadimar, the youngest of the current Wizards, had no knowledge of the Evil One’s method. Nor had Carcophan and Trilless witnessed Shadimar’s trials. Throughout history, the Pica Stone had alternated between being a possession of Wizards and of men. At the latter times, the Cardinal Wizards had no means to observe an apprentice’s progression through the tasks. Shadimar’s performance had gone unobserved.
As the quaracks tightened their ranks, and Colbey tried to speak to the animals, Carcophan detailed his method briefly. “My fire spells killed most of the creatures. None of the survivors dared to confront me.”
Child of Thunder (Renshai Trilogy) Page 8