Then the shadow-clad figures poured down over the edges.
Chapter 34
“Hold him still. Gods curse his scrawny hide!”
A fist in his belly expelled every ounce of air Sherakai possessed, robbing him of the strength to fight back, though not the will. Gasping and choking, he struck at wrists that might have been made of iron for all the harm he did them. Bear-like hands grabbed hold of his head. He did not need breath to sink his teeth into the fleshy part of the thumb. His reward was a shout and a dizzying thump on the noggin.
“You filthy little cur!”
“Wait’ll he finds your haunch, Moki!” someone laughed.
“Hold, lad! We’re not—” The declaration turned into a grunt as a lucky kick landed.
“Lively one, ain’t he?”
Sherakai found himself above the ground, suspended by a fistful of hair. Feeble clawing and kicking won him nothing but more bruises. Someone got hold of his wrists and hauled his arms behind his back. The agony in his scalp brought humiliating tears to his eyes, and kicking only made it worse. Giant Moki only needed one arm to hold him up. The other hand produced a gleaming knife.
“Let me go!” Sherakai hissed.
“Or what, little boy?”
Pain and fury filled him with the need to inflict damage or, better, death. All around lay the corpses of the Tanoshi guardsmen, men whose only crime had been in trying to protect him. Hansa and his mount lay in a tangled, bloody pile. Another of the Indimi-o lay lifeless, someone’s legs protruding from beneath the weight. The great, huge hound was dead, cleaved well-nigh in half. Not all the bodies were in Sherakai’s line of sight, but those that were looked like mockeries of pincushions. Where was Chakkan? Sherakai searched desperately for his friend, but saw no sign of him. Worst of all was Captain Nayuri, who had fought with the strength and fury of ten men. In a graceless, awkward heap insulting to his noble character, he watched with glassy eyes. A spear through his abdomen pinned him to the earth. Blood there, too. So much of it. It marked his face, his shoulder, the hand wrapped around the spear’s haft. Now and then his fingers twitched.
It was wrong, so wrong!
Unable to manufacture an adequate threat, Sherakai launched a gobbet of bloody spit at his captor’s face. It caught in the full, wiry beard, and the dark little eyes above it narrowed in rage. One by one, the giant sliced through the straps that held Sherakai’s armor. Each deliberate stroke sliced skin, then the knife went back in its sheath.
“Take it off him,” the giant growled, lowering him just enough that Sherakai’s toes touched the ground. The man had impressive strength.
“No!” Sherakai squirmed, got his weight barely on one foot, and aimed a kick at the monster’s groin with the other.
A staff intercepted, sending a blinding pain up his shin. He bit off a scream and thrashed hard enough to get one arm free. Little good it did. His elbow smashed back and up. The man behind him yelped and swore, but when Sherakai’s feet met the ground, his knees buckled. He didn’t get far. Moki and two others kept him upright. The leather-and-plate came off, taking shirt and a little skin with it. When they were finished, the two men held him up by his arms.
Knuckles cracked as Moki unhurriedly flexed his hand into a fist. Sherakai knew fear, swallowed the sensation, and jutted out his jaw in fierce determination.
Moki smiled. “You got something to say, little king of shreds and patches?”
“Aye.” He licked blood from his lips. The teeth along the left side of his mouth felt loose enough to fall out if he shook his head too hard. Tonguing them one by one, he strove to weave scathing, taunting magic into his words. “You are living proof that manure can sprout legs and walk.”
Moki’s fist drove the air out of him all over again. Without his armor to protect him, the effects were even more devastating. As he gasped for air, he realized that he didn’t even feel the burning in his scalp any more. Bairith’s men laughed at his struggling attempts to breathe.
“Let ‘im go,” Moki instructed his cohort. “More fun that way.”
The release of his arms came as a relief. His lips moved, but words refused to come out.
“What’s that, boy?”
He held up his hand to request a moment, which sent another round of mirth through his tormenters. When he could finally speak, his ragged voice required several stops and starts. “I salute your—outstanding courage and pluck in b-b-battle against a foe you clearly—surpass in weight, height, and mental debility.” It took effort to get his arms to work, but he made a rude gesture impossible to misinterpret.
“Oh, ho!” one of the men shouted with a wide grin. Whistles and jeers filled the air, cheering on the mismatched combatants with equal enthusiasm.
Moki’s heavy brow lowered even further and his bewhiskered face curled in a snarl. “For that, I’m gonna hurt you.”
“You are well-suited for the feat, you great, over-sized son of a goat.”
With a roar, he slugged Sherakai again. This time something inside him broke and the hurt of it wrung a cry from his lips. He dangled from Moki’s fist, arms clutching his ribs, rain mingling with tears and blood. Moki struck him again, a ram against his chest. Surely it drove bone straight into his heart.
“Do you wish to die, Moki dan Nohen?” A voice cut through the gathering like a whip cutting through flesh. It stung.
The men drew back, suddenly quiet, suddenly uneasy. Moki didn’t move.
Sherakai did. Fear he would be saved—and then turned over to Bairith to die a much slower death—gave him strength. He forced his limbs to respond, hooked his hands over Moki’s thick forearm, and kicked out with both feet together.
Moki grunted. Predictably, he drew his hand back to strike again. A sword whispered from its sheath and the point nipped at the giant’s cheek, taking with it a swath of hair.
“Put the child down.”
“He wants a lesson,” the giant snarled, the heat of anger radiating from his body.
“It is not yours to give.”
“The insult is mine, the vengeance is mine.”
“Who knew,” Sherakai interrupted, fear and fury fueling him, “that a tower of stinking sludge could have such delicate sensibilities?”
The fist in his hair tightened as Moki shook him like a rag doll. His teeth clacked together. The broken things inside him moved, biting.
“Put him down.” Each word was carefully, delicately enunciated.
Sherakai did not understand what happened next. Moki dropped his knife to clutch his throat with one hand and fling Sherakai away with the other. The youth couldn’t have moved his feet to run if he’d tried. They tangled and he went down, tumbling head over heels until he came up against something that gave strangely beneath him. Something that groaned in horrendous agony.
Nayuri!
“Dear gods and Saints, no!”
“Do not,” Nayuri said through teeth clenched tight. “Do not use the beloved names in vain.”
Sherakai bit his lip and choked back a sob. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He hurt too much to move, but he feared his weight pressed the captain closer to death. He forced himself up onto one elbow, hoping it relieved some of the distress.
Blood trickled afresh from the corner of Nayuri’s mouth. Somehow, he moved his hand from the spear shaft to Sherakai’s shoulder. “Yours is a true Gift,” he whispered.
“What do you mean?”
“Let it become. Do not—” A grimace made him pause. “Do not lose sight of the One.”
The pain-glazed eyes lifted, and Sherakai became aware of a presence beside him. He tried to throw out an arm to stop whatever was coming. “Wait!” he cried.
“You are Truth,” Nayuri rasped. He closed his eyes as the intruder’s blade slipped effortlessly into his throat.
The rain never stopped any more. Sherakai comforted himself with the idea that the sky grieved with him. Bairith’s men brought him away from the killing ground to a tent. The mouth of the cany
on was visible through the entrance. Rusty-voiced ravens flew in, but few came out, too gorged to lift themselves off the ground.
In a turn of events some might have found laughable, Bairith’s men waited upon Sherakai. Battle and Moki had damaged him too badly to risk moving. A healer tended his wounds each day and worked patiently at knitting the broken bones. Moki sat a good distance away, but well within sight. He hardly moved, except when someone brought him food. It was a mystery what kept such a man in place, and although Sherakai considered asking, he resisted.
On the fourth day after his capture, the healer massaged his arms and legs to restore the flow of blood to his limbs. Bachisuta, he was called. He made him sit up for a while too. Later, he promised, Sherakai could go for a walk. Sherakai watched the perpetual emptying of the skies and said nothing.
That afternoon Bachisuta rubbed his limbs again, then ordered Sherakai to his feet. His first attempt to stand sent shocking pain through his leg. The staff had cracked the bone, and it had not yet healed enough to take his full weight. His weakness did not impress the healer. He supported his patient as they made several trips up and down the length of the tent. The large canvas structure was the size of Sherakai’s room at home, but it might as well have been as long as the entire keep. The first trip to the end and back wore him out. Those that came after were worse.
The healer allowed him to rest for a little while, then walked him again. He slept a little after that, then Bachisuta had him hobbling through the rain. The bone in his leg screamed with every step, and Sherakai wore his lip through, biting it.
The next day, they put him on a horse.
The journey to Nemura-o pera Sinohe, Bairith’s arrogantly named Gates of Heaven, required crossing the flooded Usan River again. They rode south for two days to take the ford at the town of Gija. Sherakai’s wrists chafed under the wet ropes that fastened him to the saddle lest he try to escape. The rain stopped, but he no longer cared. A few of the horses showed signs of hoof rot. Bachisuta had none of the oils Sherakai suggested, and his own kit was lost. What heathens would venture out into weather like this so unprepared to care for the creatures that tirelessly hauled their fat backsides over hill and dale?
Gija straddled the river and saw a good amount of trade from both the mountain villages and the farmers in the wide valley to the south. A toll paid for the well-maintained roads and bridges, which promoted trade. Bachisuta and another man bracketed Sherakai as the captain paid the tax and saw his troop through the toll gate. Traffic increased. The carts and wagons braving the muddy conditions pulled far aside to let the company pass. Eventually, they crossed the town’s wide, high bridge.
The mood of the men lightened as they ascended the hill. Here, they bought supplies and arranged quarters for the night—a long room in the attic of one of the town’s inns. While they went out for a meal and to otherwise relieve themselves, one man stayed behind to stand guard. Before they left, their leader, a man called Iniki dan Sorehi, bound Sherakai face first to a support post. With air.
Chapter 35
The first guard stayed by the door, which suited Sherakai. The further away, the better. Standing was a relief after being tied to the saddle day after day, but the limited mobility soon sparked a crick in his neck. It didn’t do his leg much good, either. He could slide downward and kneel at the cost of a few splinters. And when his knees began to ache, he collected a few more going back up. The broken leg Bachisuta healed too fast ached night and day. Experience and conversation with healers at Tanoshi comforted him that the 'ghost pain' resulted from such rushed treatment. Distrust made him wonder if they’d done it on purpose as punishment. He dozed now and then in spite of the discomfort.
The fellow that took over guard duty talked non-stop, completely unaffected by Sherakai’s lack of response. He worked his way from the weather to the thrill of hunting down their prey—him—then started into a long discourse covering his exploits with women. Parts of the latter were eye-opening. The rest worked as well as any sleeping draught Bachisuta might have administered.
A slap in the back of the head revived him. His head bounced off the post and shooting pains screamed through his stiff neck.
“Don’t they teach any manners at all where you come from?”
Carefully, Sherakai stretched, face wrinkling in a grimace.
“Don’t ignore your betters, boy.” The guard appeared only a handful of years older. If he had House blood, it came from a field of oats.
When Sherakai only sighed, the guard smacked his head again. Twice. A single look dared the man to repeat the abuse. He moved off, dropping onto a cot to begin a new diatribe. This time he railed against the rigidity of rules decided upon and enforced by the Shepherds of the Shiran faith—a theology established hundreds of years ago. The Shepherds watched over their flocks throughout the Westlands, from sea to sparkling sea. Religion was the foundation of society, even in bloodthirsty Romuru.
The guard condemned the church leaders for their lack of vision and their unwillingness to change with the times. He criticized the tithes they demanded, declaring that the monies didn't go to the poor. The Shepherds used their ill-gotten coin to buy fine fur linings for their own cloaks, delicate crystal for their own tables, lands and titles for their own comfort and—most insulting of all—positions in the government.
When he spoke of how they preached one creed across the altars of the gods, but followed another, his passion brought him up off the cot to pace the narrow aisle. He raised his voice. He waved his hands. His eyes burned with a peculiar fervor.
Arms wrapped around the post, head tipped against the wood so he could see, Sherakai listened. He had often chafed at the restrictions religion imposed on his life. Worship had taken time he’d rather spend riding. Prayer made him fidget. While he liked to sing well enough and enjoyed the harmonies, praises bored him. He dithered between curiosity and shock.
“What?” the guard demanded, giving Sherakai’s head another smack that bounced it off the post. “Don’t tell me you believe that crap? Of course you do. You’re nothing but a hayseed, anyway. You ever even been to the city?”
“Yes.”
The guard didn’t listen to Sherakai’s response, but laid bare the Shiran practice of imprisoning unbelievers and convincing them—by way of several creative applications of torture—to accept the faith.
It didn’t sound at all like the religion his people practiced. There were those at Tanoshi who didn’t attend devotions. His father had never imprisoned them, reported them, or sent them away. He had certainly never tortured them. Perhaps things were different in the country, but that made little sense to him, either. His father often visited the capital, and was regularly involved with affairs of society, state, and church. He would practice what he preached, and preach what he practiced.
Ignorant of the effect he had, the guard suggested that a few religious hands held the reins of the entire continent. Other officials were either accomplices or they turned their heads the other way. If anyone said differently, they were not being honest, and that included Sherakai’s father.
“If there are gods,” he said, wheeling around to point directly at his captive audience, “we should be allowed to worship them when and how we please. And if there are gods—”
“There are.” He didn’t know why the affirmation burst out of his mouth as if it owned him.
“—why do we have to pay them for relief and for guidance?” the guard finished without pause. “Are the gods so petty and conceited that they only speak to the rich and powerful? The brutal? What proof do you have that the gods exist?” he demanded.
Rote words leaped to his tongue. He bit his lip. What proof did he have? Had any of the gods answered his prayers for deliverance or for the safe return of his brothers?
The others chose that moment to return, banging through the door, chattering and loud. They relieved Sherakai of the need to answer, but did not banish the question. He was freed to relieve himself and to
partake of a meal of cold stew and hard bread, then tied to the post again. Sitting with his back to it offered new discomforts. Arms bound tight behind him, it didn’t take long for an ache to set into his shoulders. In spite of his earnest wishes for unconsciousness, sleep eluded him. After a breakfast of rancid-tasting porridge, the company set out again. A troop of town guards came down the street, pulling to a stop at the mercantile across from the inn. Several of them looked over the armed riders preparing to mount up, and called a greeting.
“Where to?” he asked.
“South to Nemura-o pera Sinohe,” came the answer.
Sherakai, heart thumping, edged his mount to the side with his knee. His captors had covered his bound hands with his cloak. The town guard wouldn’t see them, but if he could just get to the edge of the group, maybe he could break free.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” came a low voice at his side. The mage gripped the back of the saddle with one hand and the other slipped under the edge of Sherakai’s cloak. The cold edge of a knife pressed against one finger, sharp with promise.
His choices were few: stay quiet and let these men deliver him to a murderer, or lose a finger and win free. “You’re not me,” he said, and jammed his left heel into the horse’s flank. Hindquarters swung toward the mage, knocking him aside. “Ha!” he barked, and the horse shot forward. Hands gripping the pommel, knees tight, he bent low as they crashed through the other horses. Shouts and whinnies filled the air. Surprise lit faces and sparked through the air. Several of the town guard started forward.
“Help!” Sherakai shouted.
A giant form loomed up next to him. Moki grabbed the bridle with one hand and the horse’s mane with the other. He hugged its head to his broad chest as he dropped to the ground. Anchored by the giant’s full weight, the horse staggered and fell. All three of them rolled—Moki and the horse one direction, and Sherakai flying over the animal’s head at an angle. He tumbled once and rolled to his feet, shoving the cloak aside to keep from tripping. Figures ran at him from all directions. He ducked under an arm, shoved his elbow into an exposed side, and plowed ahead. Hands dragged at him, caught him, shoved him back. He screamed his frustration, but it was lost amidst all the shouting and the cries from the horses. A fist clipped his chin, setting off an explosion of stars, but he didn’t fall. No, someone caught him and held him up.
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