Killer could not have set aside his own gift even if he wanted to, and thought it fitting to leave his opponent equally empowered.
He had never in his life felt this way before a fight. A sort of hopeful resignation had come over him. Honor required him to fight at his utmost, but this contest, against this man, was an opportunity he was unlikely to find again. If he died here, he could hold his head high while feasting in the halls of his ancestors, whatever his crimes.
Death would bring no loss. His family was forbidden to him. The godkind gifts he possessed, meant to benefit his people, instead benefited their enemy. Even his legendary ghostkind weapon, won after such terrible trials, did not serve the Katr any longer.
He was dead in all the ways that mattered except one. Now it was up to this stranger to make it real.
Killer waited until he saw the tiniest flicker in the broker’s expression. Then he struck.
The clash was loud in the stone chamber. Killer did not check to see what damage, if any, he was doing to his weapon. If the Broken Man killed him, he’d rather his blade be ruined than fall into Salashi hands.
As before, the stranger was startlingly fast. Killer’s gift told him what his opponents intended in the moment the thought entered their minds, but he could barely dodge and deflect the Broken Man’s strokes.
But there was less power behind them. The fight had weakened his enemy more than he’d expected.
Still, Killer found himself mostly on the defensive. The stranger used both ends of his staff to equal effect, taking aim at Killer’s legs as often as his head. He attacked everywhere with great ferocity.
But Killer managed, barely, to keep ahead and to make the occasional counterstroke. The Broken Man was an evasive fighter. Even with his gift, Killer’s strokes were a few inches off target.
It was a difficult, maddening fight. Killer thought he could outlast his enemy—simply parry and dodge for however long it took for his opponent to tire himself out—but that was a coward’s stratagem. He could not rely wholly on his gift to win this fight, or else the victory would belong to Asca, not to him. He would never have earned his weapon nor his gift if he fought that way.
He dropped to one knee, deflecting a horizontal stroke with the back of his ghostkind blade. Then, with the handle of his own weapon, he struck the injury just above the Broken Man’s left hip.
The stranger gasped and stumbled backward. Killer sprang upward to press the attack, but the Broken Man recovered too quickly, moving sideways and swinging low. Killer managed to dodge the attack against his knee, but he lost his balance and hit the ground rolling.
When he regained his feet, he saw that the stranger’s weapon was growing longer.
Killer had no choice. He charged, letting Asca’s gift guide his dodges and parries. The Broken Man backpedaled, pivoting to the left or the right, trying to keep beyond the range of Killer’s weapon. He swung his iron staff with incredible speed, as though the added length had not added weight to it.
But even if the stranger had been uninjured, he could not back away as fast as Killer could advance, especially since Killer could anticipate every feint. The Childfall Staff withdrew, becoming shorter with every parry.
Then the stranger did something so simple and quick that Killer could not react in time. He braced his Childfall Staff against the floor.
Killer tried to twist out of the way, but the staff caught his shoulder, making him spin and fall onto his back.
This was it, he thought. This was the moment when he would be freed.
But the Broken Man’s weariness had caught up to him. His follow-up stroke was just slow enough for Killer to roll out of the way. Instead, the Childfall Staff struck the haft of his polearm, which broke in half in a hail of splinters, with the steel blade spinning out of his grip.
“Yes!” Killer cried, unable to contain his excitement. Another warrior, disarmed so thoroughly, would have fumbled for his knife, giving his foe time to make another attack. But Killer leaped forward and slammed his elbow into the man’s face.
Together, they fell into the pool. The Broken Man landed on his back—Killer’s weight added to his—and hit his head on the stone. That alone would have been enough to kill most enemies, but his magic must have blunted the blow.
The Childfall Staff landed hard against the bottom of the pool and the edge, warped very slightly, then rebounded out of the Broken Man’s grip. It landed in a clatter on the stone deck somewhere behind him.
Killer of Devils was on top of his enemy, which gave him an advantage he would not surrender quickly. He knelt on the stranger’s left arm, then leaned down hard on his right. The man writhed and kicked to no effect.
Killer’s first three punches seemed to have little effect. The Broken Man’s skin did not feel metallic, but there was a little glint of the color of iron at each impact. The glint grew fainter with each blow, until a punch to the side of the face made the man’s eyes roll back and his limbs lose all strength. Blood ran from the Broken Man’s mouth, and his body lay nerveless on the stone floor.
The fight was over.
Leaning back, Killer had to admit that he was disappointed. This was not the enemy that was going to free him from his bonds. After this, he would have to return to Tin Pail, wherever she was, and continue to obey her orders. He was going to have to continue murdering in her name in this doomed corpse of a city.
“You failed me.”
He punched the Broken Man one more time.
“You were supposed to free me from this oath. I cannot do it myself, and… No matter. I have not been challenged so thoroughly since I received this gift. Your ancestors will welcome you with pride.”
He stood and looked around. The bladed end of his ghostkind weapon lay in the corner of the room, much farther away than he would have suspected. His gift told him his opponent would not be moving for a while, so he went to it.
The blade was deeply notched in a half-dozen places, and the tip was curled. If he had not seen it for himself, Killer would not have believed it. According to legend, no power humankind possessed could affect ghostkind steel, either to damage or repair it.
He looked again at the Childfall Staff now lying at the edge of the pool. He had thought it a poor weapon at first. His people preferred edges and points. Blunt weapons were for children’s training. Still, if it had the power to do this…
There was a story behind this weapon, of this Killer was sure, but he would not learn it today.
There was also a story behind a pawnshop broker who could fight like a ghostkind knight, but the stories of dead men were for the dead to enjoy. Killer would hear it, someday, when it was his turn to die.
“I will give you ghostkind steel to ease you from this world,” he said. The Broken Man was slowly coming to consciousness. He almost certainly did not hear what Killer had said about his failure, which was for the best. It was undignified to chastise a defeated foe. “You have earned it. This is the last time this weapon will be used in battle, and you will have the honor of dying from it.” Then, in case the man missed it the first time, he said, “Your ancestors will be proud.”
He hopped down into the pool and stood over the stranger’s body. The man tried to move, but he could barely drag his arms along the floor. “Riliska” was all he said.
Killer of Devils hesitated. This broker was a man of power, and they sometimes had their uses. Even if the Broken Man could not be brought into the Pails’ service, it would have pleased Killer to know he was out in the world somewhere.
But Tin had ordered him killed.
“I wish I could spare you, my friend. There are so few of us carrying these gifts that it seems a shame to destroy one. And I admit that I admire your willingness to help these children.” The stranger stirred, as though any mention of the children galvanized him. “Unfortunately, someone else must save them. My employer has ordered your death, and your godkind magic, while powerful, was no match for mine.”
“You…” t
he man croaked, his voice weak and rough. “You’re wrong.”
“Am I? Tell me how, and since these will be your last words, make them memorable.”
The pawnbroker pursed his lips, trying to get his lips and tongue to work correctly.
“You’re right that I have godkind magic,” the Broken Man said, “but you haven’t seen it yet.”
The Broken Man seized Killer’s ankle with a hand that was as cold as a plunge into an icy river.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The year 395 of the New Calendar, eight years earlier.
* * *
As the sun sank below the horizon, the jungles of Vu-Dolmont trembled. The glitterkind bellowed out their breathless, unceasing distress call. A chorus of shrieking voices from some unknown enemy shook the leaves, and ullrocts moved toward the ruins of Childfall, their burning bodies setting the wilderness ablaze.
Trails of black smoke rose from the treetops, marking their progress.
Aratill charged into the clearing. His helm and spear were gone. His bald head was bright red and slick with sweat, and his bull’s-head shield was held high. “The creature is not far behind! Your virtue, we must get you away from the glitterkind.”
Kyrionik looked around the plateau. Four of his guard lay sprawled on the ground, injured. Besides Aratill and Oblifell, there were eight others still unharmed. Where were the rest? “But the injured—”
“We swore an oath to your mother and father that we would preserve your life. I mean to keep that oath. Now give the order to form up, your virtue.”
One of the soldiers leaned over the cliff’s edge. “It will soon be upon us!”
Kyrionik ran beside him. The ullroct he had shoved into the water was nearly halfway up, its burning iron fingers gouging deep into the rock as it climbed.
A wounded soldier pressed the butt of his spear into the ground and hoisted himself upright. “Your virtue, it has been an honor to serve. My sword, please, sir.”
The man trembled as he clutched at his spear, broken leg dangling. Sweat poured over his face. Kyrionik didn’t even know his name.
Aratill pulled the man’s sword from its sheath.
The injured man thanked him and, with a trembling hand, took the blade and plunged it into the dirt. Then he shouted “Koh-Salash!” and threw himself over the cliff.
“No!” Kyrionik tried to catch him, but it was too late. He leaned out and saw the falling soldier strike the climbing ullroct on the shoulder. Both plummeted into the waters below.
Aratill caught Kyrionik’s arm. “If the fall didn’t kill it the first time, half the fall won’t do the job now. We need to go.”
The woman with the missing hand stumbled to the cliff’s edge. She drew her sword and plunged it into the dirt beside the first. “If it tries to get back up, I’ll knock it down again. Live, your virtue, in honor of your mother.”
Her face was turning gray and she did not appear to have much life left in her.
She needed a doctor, but Kyrionik had ordered their doctor to stay on Fair Season. Another mistake.
“Thank you.” He turned to Aratill. “You’re right. We’ll form up, evade the ullrocts in the jungle, then find shelter for the night.”
Oblifell stared up the slope at the impenetrable green. “I don’t like the sound of those…whatever they are.”
“I don’t know what they are either,” Aratill said, “but I still choose them over those fucking ullrocts. Pardon me, your virtue.”
Kyrionik had finally discovered what could break Aratill’s unbreakable composure. “Spear formation, heading upslope to the southeast. I’ll take point.”
Aratill raised his hand. “With respect, your virtue, I’ll take point.”
“I’ll take the rearguard,” Oblifell said. “You two take the captain’s shoulder.”
The soldiers fell in behind Aratill as they struck out through the jungle. Kyrionik spared one last look back.
The one-armed soldier stood waiting at the edge of the cliff, staring down into the billows of steam, waiting to throw her life away.
The infernal chorus of birdlike shrieking grew louder. Whatever was making that sound, it was moving toward them. If they were lucky, the ullrocts would be distracted by the sound and the humankind would slip away to safety.
But where? Without Fair Season, they had no way off the island, not unless one of Aratill’s soldiers knew how to build a boat with a real hull. Hunting jellies would pull a raft apart.
That was a problem for another day. They had to survive this one first.
Aratill marched along the slope, barely moving uphill at all. They weren’t quick, but they were as quick as they could be, weaving through the trees and trying not to foul their spearpoints in the heavy underbrush.
The ullrocts certainly couldn’t see them in this jungle cover, but could they track them by smell? By the sound of their armor?
Kyrionik’s left arm and side were painful and inflamed, but he still wished the others were faster. The man in front of him stumbled and braced himself with the butt of his spear. In the practice yard of Kyrionik’s family compound, that would have earned him a swat from Aratill. Out here in the real world, in the face of a rout, no one cared.
It occurred to him, quite suddenly, that he was never going to see his family’s compound again. Never eat olives at breakfast with his mother, never train with his brothers, never visit his sister’s grave. He’d never again see the girl he loved, or the girl his parents had arranged for him to marry. He’d never play chainball with his friends. He’d never sit in the temple and read in the light cast by Suloh’s teeth.
How strange that, in this place at this moment, he should remember the distinctive echo that his footsteps made in the hall outside his bedroom. He would never make that sound again.
And it was all his fault. Selso Rii may have been the one who cut the glitterkind arm, and Shulipik may have been lax in his duty to prevent that, but Kyrionik had been in charge. If there was one thing a First Labor was supposed to teach young nobles, it was that the one in charge cannot expect to take the credit for their successes if they’re not ready to take the blame for failure.
Everything Kyrionik had believed about himself was wrong. He’d thought he was destined to be a great man, but instead he was going to die here—along with his whole expedition—where no one could recover his bones. In his arrogance, he thought he could place his mother in the Steward-General’s chair. Now he would never see her again.
The man in front of him stepped on a log. It rolled under his boot and he pitched to the side, falling off balance. Kyrionik leaped forward to steady him, dropping his spear in the process. The weapon bounced down the slope into a thicket. One of the soldiers quickly fetched it for him.
With a flush of shame, Kyrionik returned his focus to the here and now. “Thank you, your virtue,” the soldier said, but Kyrionik could only nod in return. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He knew he would apologize, and he might not be able to stop.
The shriekers were louder than ever now, but now the sound came from behind them.
“We’re all relying on each other now,” Oblifell said from the back of the line, “so why don’t we try, just try, to move quietly in this fucking jungle. I realize you’re all wearing steel and the ground is an inch thick with dead plant matter, but let’s not make it any easier for those assholes than it has to be.” He glanced back. “Left forty degrees.”
Aratill changed course, moving uphill at a forty-degree angle. Their progress slowed, but if Oblifell thought it necessary, it must have been.
They crept through the wilderness, bracing their boots against tree trunks more than they trod on the ground, because the slope was becoming increasingly steep and there was no surer footing, even if it sometimes made the slender trees shudder and rustle.
After half an hour, Kyrionik no longer felt that the soldiers in front of him were slowing him down. In fact, he felt as if he might collapse at any moment. Aratill had
told him many times that endurance came with years of grinding effort, and he was still too young to have acquired his full share. Still, he said nothing. Someone was going to call for a rest but it would not be him. Too many had already sacrificed their lives for his sake.
The sound the swarm of shriekers made—assuming it was a swarm and not a single creature with a thousand throats—changed abruptly. They didn’t like the ullrocts either, Kyrionik guessed. Maybe they’d killed one. Maybe.
By now, the sun was nearly gone, and the only dim light they had was from the darkening sky above, and the foliage above cast heavy shadows. Kyrionik hoped they would find a place to stop soon. An unoccupied fortress with fresh water, full rations, and clean bedding would be perfect.
Aratill seemed to have read his mind. In a low voice, he said, “The other side of the ridge should have some sort of shelter, even if it’s just an overhang.” He had to pause between words as he gasped for air. He was exhausted too. “If nothing else, it’ll let us put the hill between ourselves and these creatures.”
“Can we see how much farther, captain?” a soldier asked. “The light is failing.”
“We cannot. We’ll stop in the jungle if it gets so dark that we risk walking off a cliff.”
A boom echoed over the island like thunder. Far below them to the northwest, a huge bloom of silver fire rose above the ruins of Childfall. Had the shriekers destroyed one of the ullrocts? Had the ullrocts deployed some new weapon?
It hardly mattered. The sound of the shriekers, whatever they were, moved away. The wind, which had grown quiet during the long sunset, began to rustle the leaves again, hiding the metal-on-metal noises of their armor and their harsh breath.
For a moment, Kyrionik dared to hope they might get away.
A burning tree passed overhead. It was as slender as a spear, and the plume of fire at the leafy end smelled like a campfire. It landed atop a stand of trees, embers falling among the dead foliage below.
Oblifell moved upslope alongside them. “I have unsurprising news. One ullroct, at least, is following us.”
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