As I’d intercepted the third self of the haggenbrood, unknown to me, the tip of its claw must have penetrated the skin on Susan’s forearm. That had sealed her fate. Her skin had become yellow-brown in color and as dry as ancient parchment. Her face was distorted and she was gurgling deep in her throat, obviously in the grip of terrible pain. Even as I reached her, she took her dying breath, a great rattling sob. I could do nothing to help her. There is no antidote, no cure for kirrhos.
The youngest sister screamed in horror and grief as, within seconds, Susan’s eyes fell back into her skull and her skin began to flake and crack. Within that crust of skin, her flesh had melted like soft yellow butter, and her tissues began to ooze out of the widening rifts in her skin, dissolving, dripping down her bones to form a noxious, stinking puddle at her feet.
She had succumbed to the tawny death.
CHAPTER XXI
THE SLARINDA
I was in Slither’s quarters, my thoughts in turmoil, endlessly pacing back and forth across the small room allocated to me. The door was locked, and would remain so until their return.
I remembered the arena and how Slither had graphically described what might happen. I saw in my mind’s eye the terrible haggenbrood holding the grille with a taloned hand. Slither had stamped upon it and treated the creature with disdain, but it had never been defeated in previous trials. How would the mage fare when all three selves attacked him in the arena?
And what of Grimalkin, the witch assassin? She was formidable and had dark magic at her disposal. She was so confident, too—so very sure of herself. But if the haggenbrood proved victorious, then my sisters would both die.
I heard footsteps approaching Slither’s quarters, and the voices of the beast and the witch. Then a child crying. It sounded like poor Bryony. She must have been traumatized by the events in the arena, but despite that, my heart soared with joy. They were here. They had triumphed, surely . . . otherwise they would be dead. They had won, and soon we would be able to leave this cursed city!
Then the key turned in the lock and the door of my room was opened wide. I stepped out to look at each of them in turn. Suddenly my heart sank.
Where was Susan?
“I did my best, little Nessa,” Slither said, and for the first time he was unable to meet my gaze. “But your poor sister succumbed to the terrible tawny death. Her brain turned to mush, her eyes fell back into her skull, and her flesh slid from her bones. The pain was terrible, but she is at peace now. We must be thankful for that.”
“What?” I cried. “What do you mean? Where is Susan?”
“She is dead, as I have tried to explain. One fatality was a small price to pay for such a glorious victory—surely you agree that it is better than all of us being dead.”
“But you promised!” I said, my throat and chest tightening so that I could hardly breathe. “You promised my father to keep my sisters safe!”
“I did my best, Nessa, but the odds against us were great. I could do no more than what I did.”
Tears sprang from my eyes, and I fell to my knees beside the sobbing Bryony and held her close. I felt betrayed. I had sacrificed myself just as my father had demanded, but for what?
“Say nothing more,” Grimalkin said to Slither. “Your words do not help.”
I was aware of their footsteps fading as they retreated to the far corner of the large room, leaving Bryony and me alone in our pocket of misery.
I was in two places at once—my imagination re-creating the horror of poor Susan’s death; the other part of my mind listening to the conversation between Slither and the witch, which was still just audible to me.
“The two surviving girls both deserve to be taken south to live in peace with their relatives,” I heard Grimalkin say. She was a witch, but it was good that she took our side.
“I will keep my promise regarding the younger purra,” Slither replied. “But I intend to sell Nessa in the slave market, as is my right. After all, she belongs to me. She is my chattel. I must abide by the law of bindos or become an outlaw. Records are kept, and after my triumph in the arena, my notoriety will guarantee that I am closely watched. The high mages will seize upon any excuse to bring me down. So do you intend to hinder me?”
I looked up and saw the witch shake her head. “We made a trade, and I will keep to it. I always keep my word. But where is the slave market of which you speak?”
“It is held within the large kulad called Karpotha, seventy leagues directly southwest of Valkarky, in the foothills of the Dendar Mountains.”
“Does it hold many slaves?”
“It is the largest of all our purrai markets, but the numbers vary according to the season. The end of winter heralds the first of the auctions. In about a week’s time the first big spring market will be held there. Hundreds of purrai will be sold and bought within its walls before being taken in chains back to Valkarky.”
Grimalkin was silent for almost a minute and seemed to be deep in thought. At last she spoke again. “Where do your own women dwell?” she asked. “Within the walls of your city I found no trace of them.”
I saw the look of dismay on Slither’s face, and he seemed to stagger, as if the question had shocked him to the core of his being.
“We Kobalos do not talk of such things,” he replied, clearly outraged. “To ask such a question is a flagrant breach of etiquette.”
“But I am an outsider,” Grimalkin replied. “One foreign to your customs and beliefs. So I ask you to answer my question so that I may learn.”
“I too would like an answer!” I called angrily across the room. “You are hiding something—I feel sure of it!”
Slither glanced quickly toward me, but his answer was directed at Grimalkin. “Our females were called Slarinda; they have been extinct for over three thousand years.”
“Extinct? How could that happen? And how do you continue your species without females?” she demanded.
Slither answered her second question first. “Kobalos males are born of purrai—human females held prisoner in the skleech pens.”
The witch nodded. “Why did the Slarinda all die?” she persisted.
“It is a tale of madness, of a time when our whole people must have become temporarily insane. All our women were executed in a vast arena; once its inner doors were shut fast, it could be flooded. And on that day of madness, it was flooded with blood.”
“What? You murdered all your women?” I screamed out, clutching the sobbing Bryony even tighter. “What manner of filthy beasts are you?”
I saw Slither’s tail quiver upright against his back, as it sometimes did when he was annoyed or faced danger. But he didn’t so much as glance in my direction. It was as if I had not spoken.
“The Kobalos females were dragged in groups down the steps,” he said slowly. “Their throats were cut and they were suspended from chains that hung from the high roof of the stadium—until all the blood had drained out of their bodies, pooling upon the ice of the arena floor. It did not freeze, for warm air blew from conduits in the sides of the arena.
“The work was carried out quickly and efficiently. Once a body had been drained, it was removed from its chain and carried back up the steps; immediately, another took its place. The females did not resist; most approached their death with bowed heads and resignation. A few cried out in fear at the approach of the knife; very occasionally, a shrill scream was to be heard echoing across the vastness of the stadium.
“For seven days the work went on, until gradually the arena was filled with blood, almost to shoulder height. From time to time, the mages stirred in small dilutions of other liquids so that it should not congeal. Finally this work of madness was accomplished. At the end of the seventh day, the last female had been killed, and our race now consisted of only males. The path had been cleared; the weakness excised; the stain washed clean. That is what they believed had been achieved.”
“I don’t understand,” Grimalkin said. “Which weakness do you speak of?
”
“It was thought that females made us weak. That they softened males with their wiles and undermined the savagery that is necessary to be a warrior.”
“Do you believe that?” Grimalkin asked, staring into the eyes of Slither.
He shook his head. “A warrior must always guard against a softening of his nature, but it can come from many sources. It was an act of madness to kill our females, though all societies can temporarily lapse into insanity.”
I felt sick but was astonished to hear Grimalkin say, “Yes, I think you are correct.”
“Of course, such events are hard to forecast, but in the case of my own people, I’m sure that the madness will return. And I know the circumstances that will bring it about.”
“Have you seen this? Or is it common knowledge among your people?” Grimalkin demanded.
“It is a faith that our people blindly hold to. But we mages have probed the future and think that it is very likely to occur again.”
“When will that happen?”
“I know not the when, but I know the why,” Slither replied. “When our god Talkus is born, Kobalos strength will be tripled, and we will surge out of Valkarky in a holy war that will wipe humankind from the face of this world. That is what my people believe. They will embrace the insanity of total war.”
“I thank you for being truthful,” Grimalkin said. “The history of your people is terrible—it explains why you steal human women and practice slavery. I oppose such a thing with every fiber of my being; however, I will keep my word regarding your sale of Nessa. I will leave your city secretly but will join you again soon. First I will escort you on your journey south to deliver the younger sister to her aunt and uncle. Then I will accompany you as you travel toward the Dendar Mountains. I wish to see the kulad of Karpotha, where human females are traded.”
Hearing her words, I could not prevent a sob from escaping my lips. For a moment I had thought that Grimalkin might stand up to Slither and demand that I be given my freedom to go with Bryony. Now I saw that she would honor her promise to him—a beast among beasts! These animals had killed their own females, and now I was to be delivered into their filthy hands.
CHAPTER XXII
THE KANGADON
WE left Valkarky on good mounts, shod in the Kobalos manner so that they could walk more easily through the snow. Our saddlebags contained grain to feed the horses and, additionally, sufficient oscher to meet any emergencies. We also had provisions of our own for the journey.
There was no sign of the witch. She had done as she’d said and left Valkarky secretly, riding on ahead.
The two purrai had stopped their sobbing at last, but they looked pale, their eyes downcast, evidently still in the grip of grief. I shook my head at their foolishness. What was done was done. There was no profit in dwelling on it. The minds of humans were indeed weak.
At the gate, the high mage Balkai, the most senior of the triumvirate, said a bitter farewell to me. A poor loser, he was scowling as we parted ways. I knew that he had no love for haizda mages; he was made uneasy by the fact that we worked alone, far from the city, and thus beyond his scrutiny and control.
“You ride away an apparent victor,” he said, leaning close and whispering into my right ear so that those in attendance could not hear. “Your shakamure magic may have helped you to survive a little while longer, but your days are numbered.”
“I did not use my magic in the arena,” I replied truthfully. “However, before I arrived here I used it quite legally in order to reclaim my purrai. It is my right. It is an expression of what I am!”
“We cannot forget what you have done—you haizdas must be taught a lesson. It is nothing personal, just an exercise of power to maintain our rule. Eblis, foremost of the Shaiksa, will come after you; he will be armed with the Kangadon, the Lance of Power.”
“The trial has exonerated me and allowed me to go free, with my purrai acknowledged as my own. In sending an assassin after me you act illegally!” I hissed defiantly.
“Listen well, fool,” Balkai continued, his mouth still close to my ear. “We the triumvirate always act in our own best interests. We make, shape, and break the law when necessary. I wish you a safe journey until you die.”
I bowed and smiled sarcastically. “I thank you for your kind solicitations, lord. After I have killed Eblis, I will hang his ugly head from the tallest branch of my ghanbala tree. It is early spring in my haizda, and the crows will be hungry. They consider eyeballs a great delicacy.”
Then, without another glance at him, I mounted my horse and rode with Nessa and Bryony away from Valkarky. I felt the eyes of the high mage boring into my back. He was seething with anger, and his discomfort made my heart sing.
In truth, I had hoped to ride away from the city bathed in goodwill, able to put the unpleasantness of my visit behind me. But some people cannot let things go, and Balkai seemed determined to have one last attempt to end my life.
Eblis was the leader and most formidable of the Shaiksa assassins. He was known as He Who Cannot Be Defeated. The order advanced their knowledge each time one of their brotherhood died in combat, his dying thoughts communicating the manner of that demise. Some of them would also have studied my fight in the arena; by now they would be well versed in my style of fighting and might have detected a weakness, unknown even to me, that they might exploit.
Using powerful magic, they had created a dangerous weapon, the Kangadon, also known as the Lance of Power or the Lance That Cannot Be Broken. Its other name is the King Slayer, for it had been used to kill the last king of Valkarky: his immense strength and formidable magical defenses had proved inadequate against such a weapon. There were many rumors about this blade, but none other than a Shaiksa had ever set eyes upon it, let alone witnessed it in action.
There was nothing I could do but deal with the threat when it came, so I thrust the problem from my mind and led the sisters south. I would try to keep my promise and return the younger purra to her aunt and uncle. There was no point in telling the two girls about the new danger. If I died before parting ways with them, they would be returned to Valkarky—either to be eaten or to face a lifetime of slavery.
The wind was blowing from the south with a promise of spring, and on the fifth day we entered a forest of tall pines. Among them was a scattering of deciduous trees, their stark branches already softened with new green shoots.
As evening approached, we made camp, and soon I had a fire going and was heating soup for the purrai, its aroma steaming up into the cold, crisp air. They seemed subdued and deep in thought, so I left Nessa stirring the liquid, watched by the hungry Bryony, and decided to go hunting. My needs were different. I needed blood and raw meat.
The snow was thin on the ground, with tussocks of grass showing through. However, it was deep enough to show fresh tracks, and soon my belly was rumbling with hunger as I closed in on my prey. It had already gone to ground, but its shallow burrow offered no protection and I reached in and seized it by the tail. It was an anchiette, fully mature and about as long as my arm. Its blood was warm and sweet, and I drank my fill before picking the delicate meat from its skinny ribs. Finally I chewed, crunched, and swallowed its tasty leg bones.
My hunger somewhat assuaged, I turned to retrace my steps. It was then that I noticed something carved into the trunk of a nearby tree.
It had been gouged into the bark quite recently, and I examined it closely, tracing its shape with my forefinger. It was the simple depiction of a pair of scissors. Why should anyone wish to carve such a thing here? I wondered. Was it a marker so that others might follow?
And then I remembered that the witch assassin had a pair of scissors in a leather sheath. Had she carved that symbol, and if so, why?
Grimalkin had said that she would escort us south and then on to the slave kulad, but this was the first sign that she might be somewhere close.
Again I wondered if I could trust the witch. Why did she not reveal herself? Puzzled, I walked
back to our camp.
The next day, after the purrai had eaten, I removed the overshoes of the horses and we continued on our way south.
Two days later we came to a temperate valley. Sheltered from the northern winds, it had its own microclimate. The deciduous trees now outnumbered the conifers, and their branches were already covered in fresh green leaves. The snow had melted here, making the ground squelchy, and in places our mounts churned it to soft mud.
The setting sun was bright, shining into our eyes out of a clear sky. Birds sang overhead, insects droned, and we rode along slowly, looking for a place to camp.
Suddenly everything became unnaturally quiet.
The birds ceased their spring songs. Even the insects fell silent. All that could be heard was the breathing of the horses and the slow rhythm of hooves on the soft ground.
Then I understood the reason why.
Directly ahead was a large, solitary oak tree. It was gnarled, black, and twisted, all life driven from it by the cold of the winter. Beneath that tree the Shaiksa waited. He was sitting astride a black stallion; a long lance, which he gripped with a black leather gauntlet, was angled back to rest easily against his shoulder. He was clad in black armor of the highest quality; plate lay across plate, sure to turn aside the strongest blade. He also wore a helmet with a lowered visor so that only the throat was truly vulnerable. Balkai had been true to his word: here was the assassin he had promised to send against me.
I could not see his eyes. It always bothers me when I cannot gaze into the eyes of an enemy. I feel at a disadvantage.
The neck of the assassin was adorned with a triple necklace of skulls; some, though incredibly small, were human. The Shaiksa used magic to shrink the skulls of their defeated enemies; thus they were able to decorate themselves with many such signs of victory without impeding their movements. The number of such adornments told me that I was indeed gazing upon Eblis, the most deadly of all the Shaiksa brotherhood. The lance he held was the Kangadon, which he had used to kill the last king of Valkarky nine centuries earlier.
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