by Sam Sykes
“Long have we fashas led by houn,” he continued. “By our ambition, by our gold”—he gestured to the ceiling, where the source of his wealth skittered across on eight legs—“by our friends who have, in turn, led us to be the voice of Cier’Djaal. For years, our voice has been houn. And only houn.
“This was the way of our fathers.” He held up a thick finger and waved it. His chins shuddered. “But not ours. Our fathers could count the luxury of isolation. But we, their sons and daughters, live in a different Cier’Djaal.
“We are a city of many races”—he swept a hand to Man-Shii Kree, who bowed respectfully—“of many faiths”—he found Blacksbarrow and Careus in the crowd and met their scowls with a smile—“of many people. No longer can we speak with only one word.
“Let us therefore, find a new way to speak,” he continued. “Let us add to our vocabulary. And let the first word be—”
His lips shuddered. A loud belch slipped between them. Noses crinkled in distaste. He offered a nervous laugh.
“Peace,” he continued. “Let us speak of peace. Let us speak with peace. Soon, we shall meet with our gracious Karnerian and Sainite guests present, in the House of Ghoukha, to discuss matters of—”
He was interrupted. Another raucous belch burst out of his lips. A murmur of disapproval went out, smothered quickly by a louder, more nervous laugh.
“Pardon. I do believe I shall be having a word with our chefs after this,” he said to unenthusiastic laughter. “With war brewing beneath the Silken Spire, we cannot allow ourselves to continue to play this game. We must stand united against the Khovura, against the Jackals and soon, against any—”
Another belch. Flecks of white spittle chased the noise from his lips. His belly shuddered with the force of the explusion. Now the disapproval became open, scorn plain on their faces. Ghoukha’s face seemed to melt with his frown. He held out his hands.
“Please, excuse me, but I—”
Another. Drool began to stream out from between his lips. His belly trembled, squirming like a living thing beneath his flesh. With each belch that followed, it grew in intensity, rippling across his flesh, prodding at his flab.
Through the quiver of skin, perhaps no one else noticed it. But Asper had seen it before.
Against his tremendous belly, the impression of a long, thin hand pressing the flesh.
“Oh, Gods. Please, help, it hurts so—”
His mouth craned open. The belch came again.
A river of blood followed.
Lenk watched two red droplets fall. They fell softly upon the cold, white tile of the floor and spread into ugly smears.
Almost like they’re reaching toward each other, he thought, staring at his own blood. Like they want to be together.
And with that thought, Lenk was pretty sure he had a concussion.
Before he could share either of those conclusions, though, another fist cracked against his jaw. He felt himself go limp and be propped up again by the gauntleted grip of the guards. He took in the scowl of the other two—wait, no, there was just the one hitting him, he realized as soon as his vision stopped swimming.
He surveyed the room they had brought him in. A nice little parlor, off to the side of the hall; the low-slung table, demure purple tapestries, and knee pillows suggested it would be a nice place to take tea. Lenk wouldn’t have thought it’d be an ideal place for pummeling a man to death, but what did he know?
“Look,” the guard said, rubbing his knuckles, “we get paid the same no matter what happens, but I prefer avoiding unnecessary labor. If you die, we have to deal with your corpse and we have to get our asses chewed about why we didn’t find out who you were working for. But if you just tell us…”
He let the implication hang, as another drop from Lenk’s bloodied nose hung from his upper lip. He snorted it back in, looked up at the guard. The taste of copper filled his mouth.
“So, who was it?” the guard asked. “Sheffu? Mejina? Teneir? She’s always been keen to cut off a piece of Ghoukha’s ass.”
“There isn’t a knife big enough,” one of the guards holding him chuckled.
“I’m not working for a fasha,” Lenk said.
The guard drew his fist back. “If you’re going to lie to me, it better be a good one.”
“If it is, do I not get punched?”
“Maybe.”
Lenk lowered his head and sighed. “Actually, we were looking for evidence of cult activity that would have led us to the location of a priest who owes us money and who may or may not actually have been dead all along.”
He heard the crack of knuckles against his jaw. He swayed in the guards’ grip, snorted, and spat an artless glob of red onto the floor. He looked up and sneered at the guard through a bloodied nose.
“Well, what the fuck was wrong with that one, then?” he demanded.
The guard didn’t answer. And frankly, Lenk didn’t care. Through his swimming vision, something over the guard’s shoulder caught his eye.
Dark shapes. Two legs. Moving swiftly and silently. He caught glimpses of their black clothes, their thick veils, their wild eyes.
Khovura.
Dozens of them rushing past in the blink of an eye.
And striding softly amidst them, a single white lotus floating upon a black river, was a man tall and elegant and clad in white. He felt the urge to cry out, to demand something. But there was no need. Just as he noticed the man in white, the man in white noticed him.
And Miron Evenhands turned to regard Lenk and smiled softly an instant before a pair of Khovura swept forward and slammed the doors shut.
“The hell?” The punchy guard turned and rushed to the door. Finding it barred from the outside, he pounded a fist against the wood. “Hey! Hey! Open the door. We’re not finished in here. Who’s out there? Deresk? Is that you? This shit isn’t—”
He interrupted himself with a sudden cry of alarm and a leap backward. Black liquid began to seep under the door, filling the room with the acrid reek of oil.
“Come on,” the punchy guard muttered, waving a hand. “Help me break this down.”
“What about him?” one guard asked, looking at Lenk.
“Forget him,” he snarled, whirling on his companions. “Do you want to die here? Why do you think they’re pouring oil in if not to—”
He didn’t have to finish that question.
The fire did it for him.
An orange spark raced across the pool of oil, eager as a child with a hot red giggle sneaking into a room it ought not be in. And before anyone could think to do anything about it, it reached out to tug at the oil-stained hem of the guard’s cloak. Too excited to calm itself, it leapt onto the guard for a piggyback ride.
And within an instant, its crackling laughter mingled with the guard’s screams. The flame ate him, sending him flailing across the room to spread its fire to tapestries, pillows, rugs, and the other guard he was grasping in a desperate plea for help.
Lenk and the remaining guard backed away, leaping to keep clear of the rapidly spreading flaming oil and the fiery embrace of the two guards as they tumbled to the floor. They lay there, the flame settling upon the heap of molten flesh and armor.
Lenk and the guard exchanged a brief glance, just enough to let each other know that neither of them gave a shit about each other anymore. That and a quick shove was all the attention the guard was willing to spare Lenk before rushing to the window.
A crash of glass. A flail of arms. A loud scream, growing softer.
Lenk ran to the shattered window and peered over the edge. A narrow ledge ran around the wall of Ghoukha’s house, beneath each window. The guard had probably thought he could use it to escape.
Or maybe he had just thought he’d survive the fall to the courtyard below.
Of course, he’d been wrong about that, too.
In truth, Lenk noted, it wasn’t a bad idea. The ledge was barely wide enough for a man’s feet, but it might be done. The guard hadn’t been stup
id, just scared. Fear frayed nerves. Frayed nerves made for stupid choices.
Now, Lenk thought as he climbed out onto the ledge, when you made a stupid choice with perfectly intact nerves, that was called “strategy.”
The flames devoured the room behind him. They licked out over the broken glass, nearly catching him as he crept away. He held his breath against the smoke and sidled his way slowly along the ledge.
He wanted to move faster. This wasn’t a matter of escape. He had to find another way in, another way to find Kataria before the Khovura did. He had to save her. Then the rest of them. Then find Miron. All through an inestimable tide of Khovura who were probably all better armed and definitely better armored than he.
How he planned to do that with nothing but a breechcloth, he wasn’t quite sure. But one problem at a time.
He glanced into the first window he came to next. A gang of Khovura hunched over screaming guards, hacking them to death with long knives. He hurried past, hoping they hadn’t seen him.
The window to the next room revealed a more welcome sight, even if it was full of dead guards. They lay upon the floor of another parlor, their blood staining the rugs, making swollen the elaborate designs stitched into them.
There would be time to feel bad about that later. Time, too, to feel bad about him tearing his breechcloth from his hips and wrapping it around his hand. Looking away, he smashed his swaddled fist against the glass, carefully so as not to cut himself or make too much noise. And carefully he made his way into the room.
Through the walls and the open door, he could hear the sounds of dying men and fists banging against heavy wooden doors. The air was toxic with the scent of oil mingling lazily with the pools of shed blood upon the floors.
The Khovura were dousing the entire upper floor in oil, locking people in their rooms, and barring the doors not already secured from within. This was no mere impulsive attack, then; this was going to be a slaughter, efficient and messy and of who knew how many people.
And though he could think of only one of those people right now, he forced her from his mind for the moment. Fear could speak when instinct was done talking. Right now, he had to think about getting a weapon.
He found one of the house guard’s swords and pried dead fingers loose from its hilt. That was one problem solved. And as he glanced at the guard’s waist and tried to guess what size breeches he was wearing, he was about to solve another when he became aware—as naked people did—of eyes upon him.
He looked up. In the doorway a Khovura stood, sword in hand, eyes wide and locked upon him.
Lenk felt a stiff breeze. He sniffed a drop of blood up into his nose.
“Hey,” he said.
“KAPIR—” the Khovura started to reply.
Lenk cut him off with a punch, batting aside the Khovura’s blade and driving a fist against his jaw to silence him before he could raise an alarm. The man looked hardly put off by this, immediately lashing out wildly with his blade, aiming for Lenk’s torso.
He danced backward, careful to remember where the dead lay, careful not to trip over them as the Khovura drove him back with frenzied strikes, broken glass cutting into his bare feet.
The Khovura lunged at him, blade out and seeking blood. He caught it with his own pilfered sword, retreating another step as the Khovura drove his blade forward, trying to shove Lenk toward the broken window. He growled, feeling the jagged shards of glass cut into his skin as he was driven back another step, and then another until he was arching his back just to avoid being impaled. The Khovura bore his weight down, trying to shove him onto the glass—or out the window.
“Kapira, Kapira, Kapira…”
Maddened whispers were on his lips, slithering out from beneath his veil, giving him fervent strength as he pressed his weight against Lenk, unbearable, inevitable, impossible to hold back.
So Lenk didn’t bother.
He twisted to the side suddenly, the glass scraping against his flesh as he tumbled away from the embrace of blades. The Khovura’s momentum carried him forward, downward, aided by Lenk’s hand as he seized the man about the neck and shoved him down. Hard.
The ensuing squelching sound was satisfyingly messy. And then, it was silent. The Khovura hung limp, a jagged shard of glass jutting out of the back of his neck.
Lenk took a moment to breathe.
That was a mistake. He had clarity enough, then, to appreciate the situation. He could feel the blood oozing out of his face, his back, the soles of his feet. He could hear the sounds of screaming from Khovura fanatics and dying guards. He could smell oil and cinders and smoke in the air.
And he had just enough lucidity of thought to know that somewhere, in all of this mess of death and flames, people needed him. Sheffu, if he hadn’t woken up; Mocca, if he hadn’t escaped; Kataria…
If she wasn’t already dead.
He tried to fight down that thought. He tried to fight down the pain in his feet as he walked out the room. He tried to fight down the dizzying scent of oil and the fear gnawing at the base of his skull.
He tried.
For he could do nothing else.
This can’t be happening.
In the moment between when she inhaled screams and exhaled denial, she closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the world was drowned in darkness and everything gold was painted red.
Somewhere, in the breaths between the bodies falling and the knives rising, Asper’s denial became prayer.
Don’t let this be happening.
She didn’t know where they had come from, where they had been hiding, how they had gotten in. But they were everywhere. Flickering at the periphery of her vision, shadows cast by a trembling candlelight, they ran among the crowd with their long knives and their fanatic cries.
“KAPIRA!”
Khovura.
Everywhere.
Please.
Nobles were carved, their painted faces smeared as Khovura hands dragged them down and cut them. Servants fell, offering upheld hands and pleas as ineffective shields against Khovura knives. The house guards flailed clumsily with blades meant for harder hands than theirs before they, too, were dragged to the floor and crushed under Khovura boots.
Ghoukha presided over the slaughter from the staircase, sprawled out, body jiggling with convulsions. Blood poured from his mouth in a frothy spray, descending the steps in an elegant, undulating waterfall. No longer a God but a fallen idol, his palanquin bearers had either fled or lay bleeding beside him.
The convulsions ceased for a moment. Long enough for him to look up to his silk-strewn ceiling and his golden naked women and let out a long, desperate wail to any God who would listen.
Asper couldn’t hear what he said over the cries on the floor. Nor did he ever finish his plea. Accompanied by the sound of bone snapping and flesh tearing, a long gray limb ending in polished black claws reached out from the red-rimmed hole of his mouth and groped blindly upon the red-stained gold.
She had no idea where Denaos was, where Dreadaeleon was. Any one of the black-clad figures rushing through the crowd could have been them. She had to find one of them. She had to get help. She had to find—
Gariath.
She turned and saw the wagon where he still lay hidden. She saw a man in black rushing toward her. And then she saw nothing but the big knife he drew over his head and drove down toward her heart.
She caught his wrist with her right hand, his throat with her left. She couldn’t tell one from the other. He wasn’t just a knife, he wasn’t just a wrist. He was a demon in black, fury in his eyes and on his lips. His words were choked as she tightened her grip around his throat; his arms quavered as she jerked the knife down and away, but he wasn’t stopping; he wasn’t backing down.
But she could feel herself giving way. She could feel blood beneath her feet. She could feel herself retreating step after step before his frenzy.
And she could feel her lips moving in silent, frenzied prayer.
“Please,
please, please…”
It wasn’t a prayer. She didn’t have the wit to spare for anything proper. It was the desperate chant that people only ever uttered when they wanted to wake up from a nightmare. It went to no God. It would receive no answer.
Except this time.
There is no need to worry.
She heard his voice from within her. As bright and cheery as a funeral pyre. She could feel Amoch-Tethr’s heat in her flesh as he stoked himself to an inferno inside her arm and poured his bright, cheerful hell into the Khovura’s flesh.
The man dropped his knife and fell to the ground. His mouth was open in a scream, but nothing except white clouds of smoke emerged from beneath his veil. He reached for her wildly and she could not tell if he was trying to kill her or begging for help.
She could feel Amoch-Tethr watching this.
She could feel him smiling.
Panic seeped into her like a poison, settling in her bowels, solidifying in her spine. They were everywhere. She watched a fleeing woman trip and be set upon by three people in black with long knives. Khovura stalked the floors for hiding victims, leaving bloodied footprints where they walked. She needed to do something. She couldn’t do anything. She needed help. She needed—
“KAPIRA!”
Run.
She was off as the shadows descended upon her. At least three—maybe four? She couldn’t tell. They all blended together as they pursued her, a tide of night with wicked stars twinkling silver and red in the darkness. She searched the crowd. Was that Denaos or a Khovura? Where was Dreadaeleon? Why wasn’t anyone helping her?
She almost knocked the wind out of herself, so hard did she run into the wagon. She whirled and saw them descending upon her. One rushed toward her, a cry beneath his veil, a weapon in his hands, blood on his fingers. He leapt.
“KAPI—”
His cry died in the air, choked out of him by the clawed red fingers that caught him by the throat. His legs kicked; he slashed wildly with his blade to no avail.
Gariath rose up, shredding the tarp with his horns. The Khovura still squirming in his grasp, he stepped out of the wagon, without a cloak, without hesitation. No one seemed to notice something as trivial as a massive red dragonman in the carnage.