“Munayair.” Mehan tugged on her sleeve.
Munayair touched his hand, frowning at Anjita. “If they get through,” she said, “there’s no chelka to absorb the backlash—”
Anjita rolled her eyes. “Oh, enough worrying, Ma.” But the corners of her lips quivered. “Hurry, goodman,” she said through her teeth at Bast.
“I can hold back a few of them.” Khuson studied the chouloi while hefting his sword thoughtfully. “If we break through, we might make it to the river.”
Mehan tugged again. “Please, listen. It was hard for me to trust an adept again, but I want to trust you. My amulet—” Munayair glanced at him, but before she could respond, her attention was once again diverted.
Bast sank to his haunches, hands clasped around his head. “Think, think!” He smacked his own face. “Nonna would come here with ... what was it? An offering—”
“Nonna?” Anjita’s face was white. “Grandmother? How long since anyone performed this ritual? Have you done it before?”
Bast kept his gaze lowered. “Well ... no. Nonna died before she could teach us.”
Munayair stepped between them, struggling to keep her voice level. “Jita, you need to conserve your strength. Bast—”
“Take this,” Mehan tore the amulet from his neck and pressed it into Munayair’s hand. “Take it to Al-Thina and give it to the regent. Or don’t, I don’t care.”
“Just a moment, Mehan.” Munayair tucked the amulet into her pocket. “Bast—”
Mehan’s voice was low. “I thought there wasn’t such a thing as truth. But some things can’t be reasoned or argued, it turns out. I’m sorry.” His hand slipped away from her, his warmth left her side.
Anjita cried out, turning gleaming eyes on the shrinking boatman. “Give me one good reason,” she snarled, “why I shouldn’t toss you out for the chouloi to eat.”
“They’d get awful indigestion,” Khuson tossed over his shoulder. When Anjita glared, he said innocently, “Weren’t we thinking of reasons?”
“You’re stalling now.” Anjita’s breath was labored. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and she wiped it away to glare at Bast. She snarled, “Can you get us through, or can’t you?”
Bast let out a low moan. His head hung, defeated. “I—I can’t,” he wept.
“Don’t you dare, you—” Anjita’s face twisted.
Something stirred in Munayair’s mind. “Mehan.” She turned, searching for the white-clad boy. “What were you—”
He stood facing Chanda’s snarling body. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he reached with one boot to scrub away the nearest glyph. “Mehan, no!” the ghost cried. He turned at the sound, staring.
Munayair darted forward to grab him, but it was too late.
As the glyphs shattered, cracks shot across the shield. The shock wave hit Munayair in the gut, force throwing her back. She crashed onto her shoulder and lay gasping for air. Anjita crumpled with a groan, head cracking against the ground.
And the chouloi came forward, bringing the silence of death and the stars.
Chapter 32: Backlash
Khuson met the first rush. Blood sprayed, black in the moonslight. Three chouloi fell, but ten more took their place. Bast cowered against the barrier, eyes wide.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” Mehan sobbed. “I didn’t know—” Chanda’s body stepped toward him. He raised his dagger but hesitated, staring at her hollow-cheeked face. In that instant she was on him, snarling horribly wide. He stumbled, tripped and fell with a cry, knife skittering into the wet leaves. She lunged and fell on top of him before he could scramble away. “Help me!” he screamed, holding her back with desperate hands. She growled and groaned, straining for his throat. Bast wrestled her away. A mass of chouloi backed Khuson towards the two injured women, and the rest were closing in.
“Mehan!” The misty shape of Chanda’s ghost wavered between her body and her brother. Tachoul gathered, drawn by her distress.
Mehan scrambled up and bent to retrieve the dagger. Bast had Chanda in a headlock, and both looked up as Mehan stepped closer, blade flashing in his hand. His chin trembled. Fresh tears spilled from his eyes as he looked at his sister’s snarling, foam-flecked face. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “For not being as brave as you.”
Bast’s eyes widened. “Wait—”
Mehan gulped once before raising the dagger. Munayair’s stomach swooped. A sickening wet thud, and he fell to the leafy forest floor, black liquid splashing.
“No!” Bast screamed.
Munayair gasped, tears blurring her vision. A wail split the night, coming from nowhere and everywhere. Chanda’s spirit cried as if her own heart had been rent in half. Khuson’s sword faltered, and even Bast’s head swiveled at the unearthly sound. Tachoul swarmed like hungry sharks around where Chanda’s ghost had been. The sound of her grief lingered like a chill in the air.
A cold wind began to blow, bringing with it a stench like something rotting. As Mehan slumped, every chouloi halted, expression fading, arms dangling. The tachoul hesitated as well, swinging around.
Khuson was gone as suddenly as he had appeared, a bright afterimage across Munayair’s vision. Bast dropped to a crouch and rocked back and forth, hands clasped over ears, eyes squeezed shut. Over her pain and disorientation, Munayair gagged on a stench like a filthy outhouse.
“Well, this has been amusing.”
She looked up into Shivne-Mage’s black eyes.
Taichar-Mage bent over Mehan, mouth curled with anger. As always, the bodyguards watched nearby, along with a dozen mercenaries holding torches. Anjita lay a few paces away. Her face was reddening, eyes unfocused: symptoms of backlash.
“Jita!” Munayair struggled to rise.
Shivne-Mage tsked loudly. “Don’t struggle.” His gaze pinned Munayair. “You’ve already caused enough trouble—don’t you think?”
Her head was still ringing and the clearing pinwheeled around her. She felt around frantically for Anjita, but hands jerked her onto her knees.
“Get him back to camp,” Taichar-Mage said, straightening, “and into the healing tent. As for these ... murderers ...” He turned his glare on the other three as mercenaries rushed to obey.
The mages loomed over Munayair. The strange sensation of Shivne’s magic grew—like water covering her. Thoughts rattled in her head. That smell—stench—what could be causing it? Was he dead—a rotting corpse? Or was the soul inside him diseased? He met her gaze dispassionately. The pressure was building again—dangerous and unpredictable—and she hunched forward, trying to contain it. Wherever she pressed, it grew all the faster in another direction, like bread dough bubbling between her fingers.
So occupied was she in this thankless task, she didn’t notice the buzzing sound until the mercenary holding her fell back with a cry. She raised her head to see a black cloud descending. Her blurred vision could barely focus. The mercenaries shouted in panic as the swarm enveloped them with voracious appetite, avoiding her, Bast, and Anjita. Her eyes fell on the nearest mercenary’s hand—covered in angry, biting blackflies.
He can even command insects, she thought irrelevantly. I suppose they must like biting.
“Stay in formation,” Taichar-Mage snarled. “He’s trying to break our lines.” He touched a spell on his wrist, and flames erupted in a circle around them. The heat and smoke chased away all but the most persistent insects, leaving behind a group of irate men covered in welts.
Shivne-Mage’s eyes narrowed on Munayair, igniting deep within. “Young Lord Tarokh spoke true,” he murmured. “He does come for her.”
Taichar grabbed her arm and jerked her in front of him, scanning the trees. “Hear me, fabled forest spirit,” he growled, “our introduction has been too long delayed. Come out, or I’ll tear her head off.” Silence greeted his words, as if the forest was indeed listening. Taichar pointed at the trees. “Find him,” he barked, and the chouloi lurched away. His grip on Munayair’s arm throbbed dully.
“Shivne-Mage,
do you hear—” The mercenary captain glanced around.
For a moment they stood, hearing nothing but the thundering of their blood. Then Munayair felt it—a vibration underfoot. She shifted, and the men murmured among themselves. Bast’s muttered prayers increased in pitch and fervor.
In a moment, the sound resolved itself. Galloping hooves, growing louder and louder. The whispers of the mercenaries sharpened until a man near the perimeter let out a sharp cry. Everyone turned to look. In the moonshadows cast by the trees, two dozen enormous beasts raced toward them. Elk, twice as tall as a man, wild eyes and sharp antlers, bellowing breaths and clods of earth torn up by sharp hooves. Shivne’s guards closed ranks, weapons at the ready, watching the stampede without expression.
Mercenaries shouted and broke, a second stampede of thrashing limbs and shrieked curses. The elk swerved at the last instant, close enough to the fire to scatter sparks, and thundered away into the darkness. One man, driven out of his wits, tore through the fiery barrier and made it to the tree line. A lithe shadow dropped from overhead, and massive jaws cut off the mercenary’s death scream. Night eyes flashed green in the firelight. The spotted pard stalked away, dragging its prey behind it.
“Fool,” Taichar-Mage muttered, glaring at the shadowed trees.
A howl rose into the sky, long and full of warning. The wolf moon grinned down at them. In a moment, dozens of other voices had taken up the cry, until the woods rang with layer upon layer of warning song. The mercenaries shoved and snarled at each other, clutching weapons in shaking hands. The white-patched guards shifted yet closer to Shivne.
“Amusing as all this is,” Shivne said. “Perhaps extra incentive is required.” Looking around with a savage grin, Taichar nodded. Behind them, Bast’s prayers stuttered to a halt. Shivne-Mage fixed his expression into sorrowful piety. “May the One smile upon their unfortunate souls.”
“Start with the journeyer,” Taichar ordered.
Two mercenaries dragged Anjita to her knees and pulled her arms straight out, ignoring her pained cry. Munayair yanked against Taichar’s grip. Blood seeped from under Anjita’s hair and she swayed, eyes glazed and unfocused. A burly mercenary stepped forward, pulling a carved scimitar from his belt.
Munayair broke away and stepped in front of the blade. With a grunt, the executioner shoved her back. She staggered and fell, head glancing against a tree trunk. “No, please.” She struggled to rise but made it only as far as her knees. “Me first.”
“How touching!” Taichar-Mage laughed. “Very well, as milady demands. The journeyer may learn from her fine example.”
Hands grabbed Munayair, pulling her arms straight. She counted breaths—in one two three, out one two three ... The blade rose and she flinched, but the hands held her fast. Bast fell silent.
“Wait.”
Shivne-Mage spoke sharply. The men turned, and the executioner lowered his sword. With a gasp, Bast’s prayers resumed, doubled in intensity. Stepping forward, Shivne grabbed Munayair’s wrist. In the torchlight, the mark stood livid against her skin.
“Is something amiss, Brother?” Taichar-Mage glanced between them.
“Where did you get this?” Shivne demanded, stooping to look her in the face.
Never look in his eyes, Bast had said. Munayair swallowed hard, dropping her gaze.
A thin grey shape emerged from the air and stood facing Shivne-Mage. Chanda’s face was pinched and her shoulders sagged, but she met his eyes without fear.
He dropped Munayair’s hand and stumbled back, eyes wide. “God protect me,” he cried, throwing his hand over his head to ward off the evil eye. “What foul witchcraft is this?”
Only Munayair and Shivne could see her ghostly form. The mercenaries and Taichar watched in confusion.
“You shan’t hurt Miss,” Chanda declared. “She kept her promise, and you won’t touch her!”
The mage was thrown for a moment. Then he narrowed his eyes and put his head to the side. “Wait a moment—I know you,” he said. “The little soul that escaped. How wonderful, you’ve found your way home.”
His smile held a razor’s edge, but Chanda stood her ground. “You hurt me, you hurt Mehan,” she shrieked, more solid and vibrant than ever before. “You won’t hurt anyone ever again!”
“Chanda—no!” Munayair cried.
Chanda’s shape elongated, face twisting as sobs echoed from the silent trees. The mercenaries drew back, muttering and making the sign against the evil eye.
“What—” Shivne-Mage gasped, blinking.
Then the attack began.
Tachoul emerged from every direction, swarming around Chanda in blank, hungry silence. Hundreds of them, drawn by the raw vulnerability of a spirit’s grief. Piling over and through one another as they sought to latch on and consume her, along with every spark of life. As their frenzy increased, so did their boldness. Nearby mercenaries also began to fall as their energy ran into the horde of feasting spirits. Taichar-Mage cried out against the invisible foe, laying about him with blasts of fire and wind, eyes wide with terror. Bast jumped to his feet and fled behind a tree. The spirits flowed around Shivne-Mage, drawn to him but also somehow repulsed. His guards hastily lit torches, and the tachoul drew back.
A shadow moved in the corner of Munayair’s eye. Khuson stepped in front of her, sheathed sword in one hand and a flaming torch in the other. The hellish glow of the fires augmented the golden glint of his eyes. He said nothing but waited with a grin twitching the corners of his mouth. Shivne’s guards stepped forward with shouts of warning, drawing their swords.
Shivne-Mage stiffened. He let out a huff, then chuckled with delight. “So, you finally appear before me,” he murmured. “Do you know how long I have been searching for you? As soon as rumors reached Tsai-chuul, I knew—”
He broke off, eyes narrowed on Khuson’s face.
“Wait,” he muttered, stepping closer. “You—no, it’s not possible—”
Munayair staggered to her feet and took two wavering steps. Mercenaries rushed around in terror, but she could only watch the color and life draining out of Chanda’s transparent form. Chouloi emerged again from the woods, faces serene and eyes calm, and Taichar-Mage’s yelling became frantic. “Get over here!” he shrieked, jabbing a finger towards Khuson. “Get him!”
“Munayair,” Khuson’s voice echoed in her ear. He stooped to look into her face. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”
She gaped at him, unable to form thoughts, much less words. Shivne-Mage had schooled his expression. The only remaining sign of his surprise was a line between his eyebrows. He settled back to watch.
“So, this is the Night Watcher,” one of the guards said, a hard light in his eyes. “You killed three of my friends, khuttach.”
“It’s Khuson, actually,” he said with an easy smile. “Common mistake.”
“Why, you—” The guard raised his sword and started forward.
“Silence,” Shivne-Mage snapped, never once looking away from Khuson’s eyes. He gestured once, and his guards let out choked gasps, blood spurting from their throats. They fell, thrashing, and did not move again.
Khuson clicked his tongue. “What an unpleasant way to treat your friends.”
“They saw your face,” Shivne murmured, still staring as if at a ghost. “They had to die.”
From across the clearing, Taichar-Mage snapped, gesturing. “Get him.”
Chouloi approached. Their hands stiffened into claws, torn fingernails raking through the air. Eyes glinting in the firelight, Khuson tore his sword from its sheath, teeth bared in a grin. He slashed again and again, but there were too many and they knew no fear. They hemmed him in closer and closer, groaning and growling, shoving to get nearer. He could have fled, but he kept himself planted solidly between them and Munayair.
Avlingai, please, she cried inwardly, but there was no reply. Had the great bear ever existed, or had he been a product of her fear and loneliness? Surely, if he was real, and a friend, he could not sit
back and watch this. Did the gods weep on their celestial thrones for the suffering of their children?
Obscured by a writhing pile of chouloi, Khuson screamed, high and full of agony. The entire forest echoed with responding cries. Wolves howled, birds swarmed into the sky. The eerie silence of the grove was broken as every creature felt the Night Watcher’s pain.
Chanda’s eyes met Munayair’s, brown leaching from her irises as pain faded from her face. Her fire faded—her unending hunger faded. Bravery and anger, all gone—eaten away onto grey dullness.
Fire all around Munayair, roaring, filling the air with its choking black breath. “No, take me, don’t do this—” Words erupted from her throat, screams, she was surrounded by fire, by smoke—no, not again. Her distress attracted a trailing arm of tachoul. They were all around, cold mustiness suffocating every sensation. She watched them reach for her, terrible in their mute emptiness, and shivered as her strength began to pour into them. What did she care? Her strength was insignificant. Why not let them empty her of fear and sorrow and pain?
Then her eyes fell to Anjita kneeling stupefied, face the color of milk. Tachoul gathered around her like ants to a drop of honey.
Rage erupted like a volcano. They would not touch Anjita, not now or ever.
Munayair raised her hands.
The tachoul around her shivered and fell back, swirling like water around a drain.
She meant to touch a spell—she wanted to, her hand went towards her arm as it had been trained to do.
But the fear, the pressure, building, pushing! A volcano, threatening to erupt. She fought it, but it continued to grow, like an immense looming shadow. She fought this thing she had feared for so long, threatening each moment of peace she had struggled to gain.
She fought until she could no longer, until it filled her past the breaking point. She fought until her body could not contain it.
She raised her hands.
The pressure exploded outward, a blast of energy rocking the grass, the trees, the air. Screaming, Taichar flew twenty paces into a tree trunk. Anjita reeled and collapsed. The remaining mercenaries took to their heels and vanished into the smoke. Even the chouloi faltered and fell back. Only Shivne-Mage stood untouched, face pale, watching like a stalking lion with an antelope in its view.
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