Nathan put on a burst of speed toward the sheltering forest. He could hear the crushing foliage, saw the people trampling countless flowers. His boots, the hem of his wizard’s robe, even the silks covering his hands must be tainted with poison. He would have to scrub every bit of it off in the fast stream, if he made it that far.
He and Verna finally reached the other side of the meadow. They rushed into the trees, scrambled over rocks, and topped a rise before they worked their way down into a drainage, where a rushing stream tumbled over mossy rocks. Before he scrambled down the steep slope, Nathan glanced back to see the enemy soldiers pouring across the meadow after them. The first ones were starting to stagger and drop among the deadly blossoms. Many did not make it halfway through the meadow, while others kept on, slowing, lurching, until they collapsed into the deceptively colorful vegetation.
As countless men died inexplicably, the rest of the army hesitated, piling up in a wary crowd at the outer edge of the meadow. A few made it all the way across the field of flowers and reeled into the rocky forest, where they dropped among the trees, writhing and vomiting, clawing at their eyes.
Nathan felt a grim pleasure as he watched them die. “Those flowers will make a fine bouquet for your funeral.”
Verna’s shout startled him out of his reverie. “Nathan, don’t just stare! We have to get to the stream and wash!”
Without wasting breath on further words, they ran down the steep slope to the fast-flowing water, where General Zimmer and his soldiers waited beside all the horses, weapons drawn and ready to fight any enemy who made it through. Nathan and his companions careened down the slope, slipping and stumbling on dry leaves and pine needles until they plunged into the rushing, cold stream. The current was frigid with snowmelt, but Nathan dove into the water, peeling the silks from his hands before the poison could soak through the special silk. He unwound the fabric from his face, then dunked his head into the stream and let his long white hair flow loose. Next, he stripped off his white robe and let it drift down the stream. He would never wear the contaminated garment again.
Verna, Oron, and Olgya scrubbed their hands in the silty stream bottom, washed their faces, wrung out their clothes. Gasping, spraying water from his mouth, Nathan looked up to see Renn stumble to the stream’s edge. The other wizard moved slowly, his face aghast.
“Into the water, Renn!” Nathan called. “Wash yourself! Get the poison off.”
But Renn stared at his left hand, where the silken wrappings had slipped off while he charged through the flowers, and now the fabric hung loose on his wrist. He looked at his palm, his fingers, the back of his hand, where the skin was already covered with gray blisters. His wrists were swollen and red, his knuckles puffy.
“Oh no,” Renn said.
*
The sad defenders carried Renn’s body with them, not willing to give the fallen wizard an unmarked grave in an empty forest. They moved swiftly away from the deathrise field, griefstruck.
Behind them, hundreds, maybe even thousands, of the enemy soldiers had fallen dead from the horrible poison in the meadow. The ancient army ground to a halt in shock as First Commander Enoch sent cautious scouts to find a safe route that avoided the meadow. Eventually, the great force pushed on toward the rocky peaks that led to the pass of Kol Adair.
When Nathan and his companions had gone a safe distance from the enemy army, they found a sheltered hollow in the high forest, where they took the time to build a funeral pyre for Renn.
Thorn and Lyesse patrolled, watching out for surprise attacks, while the rest of the group paid their respects to the fallen wizard. Captain Trevor and his Ildakaran guards were especially shaken, having escorted Renn to Cliffwall and back. Together, they watched the blaze burn, purifying his mortal remains.
Nathan touched the scar on his chest and felt a twinge of Ivan’s anger, but he drove it back and concentrated only on his respect for Renn.
CHAPTER 25
The three serpent ships cruised down the Killraven River past sluggish side channels and wide marshes. When a heavy breeze stretched the blue sails, the Norukai shipped the oars and let their captives sprawl on deck, tied in place.
After being confined for so long in the hot and stinking hold, Bannon relished the small joy of open air. His skin was caked with sweat, dried fish slime, and blood. His pale skin burned easily under the sun, and his body was mottled with bruises.
King Grieve strode along the deck to remind the slaves of his intimidating presence. Bannon hated everything about the man—the chain around his waist, the iron plates on his knuckles, the implanted spines in his shoulders, the awful gash that sliced his mouth to the back of his head.
Chalk followed the king like a loyal dog, jabbering, grinning. “My Grieve, King Grieve, you’ll all grieve!” The king seemed comforted by the shaman’s presence, as if he were a pet.
The big captive Erik sat beside Bannon, his knees drawn up to his broad shoulders, his head hung. Though Bannon had tried to keep him strong, the large man remained in a daze of grief, walling himself off, as if to commune with the spirits of his slaughtered family. Bannon tried talking with the sullen captive, but rarely earned a response.
Several Norukai ran excitedly to the stern of the ship, looking down into the muddy river. “Get us hooks,” one man cried. “Spears with ropes!”
Trying to see what they were doing, Bannon tugged against his bindings, but each movement made him wince. More Norukai rushed to the rail with boat hooks, harpoons, weighted nets. Leaning over the side, they took turns hurling weapons into the water, as if it were some kind of sports contest.
Drawn to the frenetic activity, Chalk pressed among the larger warriors, elbowing through so he could peer down. “Ah, fish! Big fish, monster fish! Fish monsters.”
“Get a hook in their gills,” Gara called down.
Another Norukai groaned, “That one’s dead now, but we’re drifting too fast down the channel. The damned thing is slipping away!”
“Drop anchor,” King Grieve shouted. “It’s worth the stop. That’ll be enough food to get us back home.”
Chains rattled through slots as heavy anchor stones dropped into the river, sinking to the mud. Two other raiders climbed the mast and rolled up the sails, tying them to the yardarm. The other two serpent ships dropped anchor as well.
“Channel catfish,” said oar master Bosko as he let out a loud burst of smelly gas. “We’ll have a feast, by the serpent god!”
They jabbed hooks and spears into the water, then hauled on the ropes. It took three straining Norukai to pull up the first flopping body.
Though Bannon had lived on Chiriya Island, where fishermen brought back their daily catches, he had never seen such a huge fish before. Groaning and laughing, the Norukai heaved the beast over the rail and dropped it onto the deck with a loud thud. The catfish’s body was as long as a canoe, its crescent-moon mouth gaping, the wide-set eyes small, dark, and stupid. Long whiskers were like barbed tentacles. Watery brown blood oozed from the wounds made by barbed hooks and serrated harpoons.
Chalk could barely contain his excitement as he squatted in front of the creature. He touched the slime that covered the catfish’s body and danced back, holding up his finger and licking it. The dying catfish twitched and thrashed, and the albino shaman skittered away from the sharp spines on its fins.
“Fish bite, fish nibble,” he said, poking the countless small scars that covered his body. He grinned at Bannon as if the two were having a private conversation. “Stay away from the fish.”
The Norukai threw more harpoons into the river and pulled up a second enormous fish. Before long, the mood on the ship brightened as the Norukai hauled a third monster fish onto the deck, and they fell upon the creatures with their knives, sawing through the scaly hides to pull out the entrails. The catfish oozed puddles of slime on the deck. One Norukai man received a deep cut from a thrashing spine, and he retaliated by using his battle hammer to batter the fish’s head into pulp
.
Bannon felt queasy with the stench of the slime and blood, but Grieve regarded the mess with pride. He raised his heavy war axe and with a single stoke cut halfway through the catfish’s neck. The whiplike whiskers continued to twitch.
Grieve hacked twice more until the head rolled loose, and Chalk clucked his tongue in disappointment. “The axe cleaves the wood, the sword cleaves the bone! And King Grieve cuts the fish, monster fish. Fish monsters.”
“Did you predict we would have a feast, Chalk?” Grieve asked.
The albino dropped to his knees and thrust his hands into the open cavity from which the guts had already been removed. “I predict . . . dinner!”
The Norukai made swift work, peeling off the tough skin, cutting up the pinkish meat. They were happy to eat the fish raw, and Grieve took a hunk for himself, chewing with his wide-hinged jaws. Before long, the three enormous carcasses were stripped down to the bones, and men heaved the skeletons overboard into the river.
Once he had stuffed himself, Grieve became magnanimous. “Let the slaves feast, too, so they have more energy to work.”
The Norukai threw piles of the slick red intestines and frilled gill membranes onto the tied captives. The stinking slime crawled down Bannon’s chest, but his stomach growled. The raiders hadn’t fed him all day.
A flare of anger ran through him. In the past, he sometimes lost control and flew into a fighting frenzy, a reckless wild man with no thought for his own safety. He controlled himself now, knowing that foolish resistance would only get him killed. He would rather kill them.
He strained at the ropes around his wrists and grabbed a fleshy blob of organ meat. He chewed, tasting the muddy burst in his mouth, but he grimaced and swallowed.
Chalk squatted next to Bannon, munching handfuls of raw meat. “Revenge on the fish! Fish tried to eat me, and now I eat the fish.”
Bannon again noted the pockmarks on his skin. “What really happened to you? Why do you have all those scars?”
“Fish nibbled me,” Chalk said. “Wish the fish! Wish the fish! King Stern didn’t like me. He threw me in a pool of razorfish, and they almost ate me, but Grieve pulled me out. He saved me, took me to a healer. My Grieve, King Grieve, you’ll all grieve!”
Bannon tried to piece together the shaman’s ordeal from his patchwork words. Chalk had been sacrificed to a pool of carnivorous fish—because he was an albino? because he was odd?—and the fish had torn his skin to shreds before he was rescued? No wonder he was so loyal to Grieve.
The thought of what had happened twisted Bannon’s stomach, even eliciting an odd sympathy for the scarred and mentally disturbed man. Considering all the Norukai had done to him, Bannon chastised himself for feeling sorry for Chalk, but the pale man had an odd longing in his eyes.
The shaman glanced over his shoulder to the bow, where the king stood. “Nibble, nibble, nibble! Fish will nibble me still. Eat my flesh and bones when I die.” Chalk jammed more raw flesh into his mouth. “Now I eat the fish. Which ones will eat me, I wonder. . . .”
Bannon ate as much of the catfish entrails as he could stand. Next to him, Erik sluggishly chewed a mouthful, but he looked sick. Trying to encourage his friend, he forced himself to set a good example and eat a little more. Erik didn’t seem to notice.
Impatient, the king bellowed out, “Enough wasted time. Set the sails and raise anchor. Soon, we’ll reach the estuary and the open sea. We have a war to fight.”
As the serpent ships got underway again, Grieve grimaced at the slime and blood pooled across the deck. “Have the slaves clean this up. They need to earn the feast we just gave them.”
“Scrub!” The shipwright Gara handed Bannon a bucket and bristle brush. She raised a threatening fist. “Scrub to make you strong enough for fighting.”
Bannon knew he would be strong enough to kill any Norukai who gave him the chance. As the serpent ships sailed on, he and the other slaves got to work.
CHAPTER 26
After watching the sacrifice of the man named Cal, Nicci now fully understood the explosive threat of the zhiss. She could not just abandon these people to seek another war, hoping they would manage to keep containing the bloodthirsty black cloud. She had to find a way to stop the destructive force before it broke loose and swarmed across the landscape. Nicci was not one to walk away and leave a problem unsolved.
And the Sorceress must save the world.
While sheltered inside during the day, Nicci called some of the Hidden People into Kurgan’s cavernous throne room. Restless, Mrra brushed against Nicci’s leg. Her black travel dress was swallowed up in the stark shadows of the torchlit chamber.
She announced to the group without preamble, “I will help you find a way to stop or destroy the zhiss.” The big cat let out a growl, as if to agree with her sister panther’s new mission.
The Hidden People sounded relieved and excited. Young Asha grinned. “I knew you would!”
With a satisfied expression, Cora nodded. “The legends said a hero would come back and save us.”
“It should be General Utros,” said Cyrus. “That was the prophecy.”
“Would you prefer to wait for him?” Nicci snapped. “Or shall I try?”
Cyrus frowned. “You may try.”
“I tend to succeed.” Nicci did not boast of her past victories. She had killed Jagang, she had helped Richard defeat Emperor Sulachan and his hordes. She had destroyed the Lifedrinker as well as the violently uncontrolled Victoria. She had fought the twisted society of Ildakar, and she had clashed with General Utros. The zhiss swarm was an entirely different danger.
Nicci stepped onto the cold stone dais that had once held Iron Fang’s imposing throne. “I am a sorceress, and I was once a Sister of the Dark. I can use both the Additive and Subtractive sides of my gift. I don’t know what the zhiss are or where they came from, but I will find a way to stop them.”
The shadowy people looked at her with hopeful expressions. They pulled back their gray hoods to reveal faces white from living in darkness, but their expressions now showed a spark of hope that she had not seen earlier. Mrra thrashed her tail, and a low rumble vibrated from her throat.
Cora came forward to help. “We can tell you everything we know about them. Maybe it will give you what you need to find a solution.”
*
The Hidden People had studied the black swarm for generations, documenting their observations, their extrapolations, and several failed attempts to eradicate the zhiss. For more than five hundred years, they had poisoned their bodies with the toxic fungus, but they had tried little else, simply clinging to the status quo and keeping the threat at least marginally under control.
Cora brought her scrolls and bound journals, ledgers where witnesses had recorded their thoughts from generations earlier. Nicci pored over the words, dismissing anything that was not relevant. She had studied for many years in the Palace of the Prophets and also learned techniques that were forbidden.
While the pale old woman made suggestions and pointed out important summaries, Nicci tried to devise a tactic that might work. She skimmed another account and mulled over what she knew. “They only come out during the day. They thrive under the light and hide or go dormant in darkness.” She looked at Cora. “Do you know where they go? How I can find their lair?”
The old woman shook her head. A gray-brown strand of hair dangled down the side of her wrinkled face.
Nicci tried another idea. “Can we attract them at night? Could we call them here, under our terms?”
Cora reacted with horror. “Why would you do that? It is our only time of safety.”
An idea began to form in Nicci’s mind. “Because in daylight they can go anywhere, but what if we found a way to attract them to a dark place and trap them there?” Her lips curved in a hard smile. “That might be what we need.”
The old woman looked disturbed. “How would you hold them? What could possibly contain the zhiss?”
Nicci raised he
r hand to indicate the stone walls. “Your artisans bricked up the arches and windows, sealed these buildings, and the zhiss can’t penetrate the walls. A properly constructed stone structure could hold them in just as easily as blocking them out. We could imprison them permanently, maybe starve them.”
As she developed her plan, Nicci had to convince the Hidden People, for she would need their help. Since she was a gifted sorceress, the primary work of trapping and holding the zhiss would fall on her shoulders, but the Hidden People were a skilled workforce and she would need them all to pull together to craft a permanent prison. Or an execution chamber. It would be a swift and ambitious job, if she could contain the cloud long enough.
When Nicci explained her idea, Cora said, “Many of us may die.”
“You sacrifice one of your number every month just to keep them contained. Your people have been dying here for centuries, to no good effect. My idea may put an end to the threat forever. Isn’t that what you want?”
“It’s a risk we have to take,” the old woman admitted, “and I pray you succeed.”
“So do I,” Nicci said under her breath. “You have never seen someone like me.”
Over the course of planning, Nicci scouted the city every night, deciding on the right place to set her trap. She and Mrra prowled outside as soon as twilight fell. She required a large space to confine the swarming cloud, and the round sunken amphitheater seemed perfect for her purposes.
During their days inside the sealed buildings, the Hidden People scoured the imperial halls and chambers to find old mirrors that could be polished to bright reflectiveness, smooth sheets of gold and brass that gleamed in the torchlight. After all the preparations were made, Nicci began building what she called her “cauldron trap.”
As soon as the sun went down, the Hidden People bustled around the stage at the bottom of the crater amphitheater, installing the mirrors, the reflective metal sheets, and angled crystals, all of which sent out rainbow shards of torchlight. The work crews took advantage of every hour of darkness. They filled the center stage where Iron Fang had once shouted his speeches to a cowed populace. They piled a mound of dry wood, split logs, and thin branches, enough to make a blazing bonfire. All of the reflective surfaces would increase the brilliance a hundredfold.
Heart of Black Ice (Sister of Darkness: The Nicci Chronicles Book 4) Page 15