A Fray of Furies, page 41
part #2 of The Waking Worlds Series
“Ancestors’ hoary bones!” she cursed, watching him dwindle.
She should go too.
But she had a responsibility. She’d thought she was coming to release him. Now, that word was taking on a different meaning.
With a good knife…
“Bavura,” she breathed, “I’m so very sorry...”
Foaming pink at the mouth, he strained toward her. The heavy chair juddered. Somewhere, a tortured rope snapped.
“Please, Bearbait, listen to me…” she fell into the mountain tongue, trying to find somewhere her touch wouldn’t bring more pain. “I never wanted this...”
He strained. Breathless. Beyond reason.
The butcher had shredded his body from without, the beast had shredded Bearbait from within. Neither had quickened the krin. She shook her head. She’d lost them both.
She was not deaf to the sound of defeat in her sudden laughter.
“Bellem was right,” she announced. “I am too hungry for honor. Blind to the pitfalls. Just look at what I’ve done to you…”
Somewhere, beyond the ruckus and caterwauling, she could make out an authoritative voice.
“You never met Bellem, did you?” she mused. “You two are much alike. Brilliant. Overcautious. You’d have liked him.”
She thought she could hear the sound of boots in the distance.
“He was my friend, too.” She unlimbered her bow.
Friends? She thought, testing the string. Is that what we are?
Were, reminded another part of her. On both counts.
Jumbled shouts boiled up the passage, speeding on running feet.
She drew an arrow to her ear as she drew level with the door.
Her first shot found a wet thump. The second, a scream. By the third, panicked cries were being herded, back up the hallway.
“Perdition!”
“Fall back! Fall back!”
The intrusive sounds retreated. She knew they’d return.
“It took me a long time to admit Bellem was my friend. Not just some annoying cousin, tied to my tent pegs.” She chuckled at an inopportune memory. “I did that once, did you know that? I trussed him to our center-pole, so he wouldn’t follow me. I actually forgot him there. I don’t know anymore where I went that day. But I remember the beating my father gave me when I got home. Funny thing. Afterward, Bellem was the one trying to cheer me up.
“Anyway. The point is. I don’t–” she cleared her throat. “I don’t count Bellem as my only friend anymore.”
“Worst… apology… ever…”
The whispery voice snapped her head up.
Bearbait looked worse – with the fight gone out of him and his humanity in the fore. If he were a bloody rag, the midwife would have thrown him out. She could see the effort speaking cost him.
“Where?” he managed, voice hoarse.
“Some torturer’s lair,” she explained, “with guards coming.”
“I can fight...” he offered.
“You can barely speak,” she smiled, gently.
Boots tromped down the stairs. She darted to the door to fire another shot. It clanged off a tower shield.
“Infidel! Lay down your weapons and come out!”
“Ancestors,” she swore, ducking away.
“Got… any better… ideas?” he challenged.
On his flensed chest, the seal lay, obscured by gore.
“No,” she admitted. “But I’ve got a much, much worse one.”
Even weak and broken, he was quick.
“Don’t think your… ’maginary monster… gonna help…”
“No,” she agreed. “I don’t think it will either.”
It would kill her. Then, hopefully, it would kill everyone else. But if Bearbait could fight his way free of the krin once more, at least one of them might survive. For the first time, she found herself hoping the priest was right: that her friend was more than a mishmash of memories. That he was his own person.
“Turn me… ‘to a toad… ‘s long as… get me… out this chair...”
His lone eye was earnest. He wasn’t giving up.
“Alright.”
“What… do I do?” he asked.
“Think monstrous thoughts,” she quipped, blinking her eyes clear. She met his level gaze with her own. “And believe…”
She stepped into the doorway, not flinching as a crossbow bolt whirred by. Her return shot shattered against a shield wall, marching down the corridor in lockstep.
As she loosed another shaft, she began to sing. Not bothering to aim for protruding elbows or shuffling shins, she played the drums off their shields, keeping up a rhythm. The nasal strains of the People reverberated around the passage, waking an entire choir. Her slew of arrows dwindled as the enemy drew near.
At the last, she kicked the door closed and turned the key. Heavy thumps kept the drums going as she ran to Bearbait.
He held her eyes as the watchman’s blade bit into her hand. Though she knew it must pain him, he smiled at her.
Her song reached its zenith.
She lay her palm gently over his heart.
Whatever power she’d imagined, building around them, winked out. He frowned uncertainly, “I don’t feel–”
He jerked in his bonds, arching as the magic seized his spine.
Cold suffused the room as the transformation leeched heat from the very air. Bearbait was a bonfire, forcing her to step back. His leather bonds crisped, the ropes blackening. His back snapped with an unhealthy crack. His lone eye locked on her with pained astonishment. Then all recognition fell away.
His inhuman gasps and grunts ran counterpoint to the grind of cartilage and the wet knit of muscle. Sprouting fur swept old blood before it. Dark talons scored the chair’s armrests. New, sharp teeth broke through bloody gums.
Around him, the chair slowly disintegrated.
Mesmerized, she watched the krin rise from the wreckage. Up and up, until it brushed the ceiling. Two whole, unwholesome eyes held on her, bright with fever. She had not realized she’d backed all the way to the door until it bounced against her. The beast padded after her, smelling of madness.
She turned her head away, offering the thing her throat. The heat of its body buffeted her, its rancid breath rolling over her. Fangs snagged strands of her hair. Hot saliva ran down her neck.
But she wasn’t dead. Yet.
“Alright then,” she breathed.
And turned the key in the lock.
“It certainly is the real thing,” the old priest wheezed, turning the blade over and over. She tried not to wince, expecting to see him prune his fingers with his next careless cough.
“Watch it,” she couldn’t help cautioning.
He looked a question at her through his jeweler’s lens.
“It’s sharp.”
“As the day it was made,” he confirmed, returning to his study. “I can’t tell you what it means to have Arbiter’s orin home. You must be commended for carrying it such an enormous distance.”
“Point of fact,” she forestalled. “I must be compensated. Commendations are neither necessary nor welcome.”
“Of course,” he nodded, eyepiece exaggerating his sly glance. “Helia forfend it should fall into the wrong hands…”
“Surprised I didn’t keep it?” she challenged.
“Not in the least,” he placed the blade on a waiting stand.
She raised a disbelieving brow.
“Justin chose you,” he explained, removing the headpiece.
“Ah,” she scowled. “He is… something else.”
“He is the best of us,” the aging priest admitted, his white hair sticking up every-which-way. “Just don’t tell him I said so.”
“Not to worry,” she drawled.
In truth, she wasn’t sure she’d go back. Generous though the Temple was with its coin, religion made her uneasy. Gods were prone to take notice if you strayed too close to their orbit. And disbelief was no defense against their disastrous pull.
Also, she itched to ply her true trade. The Purlian market was said to be perilous, even by assassins’ standards. But demand was sky-high and standards low. She could teach them a thing or three.
Or perhaps she’d go see the Summer Isles. Do a little work by daylight. Test her mettle against some of their outlandish creatures.
She might even return to Rasrin, one day.
“Sitter Cyrus!” a breathless voice called. “Are you in here?”
It was a fair question. The priest’s laboratory looked like a library had had an allergic reaction to a flea market. And it was stacked high with tight corners and dead ends besides.
“Ahem!” the priest coughed. “Yes, here!”
“Oh, thank Helia! I’ve been looking everywhere...” The sounds of someone negotiating the gauntlet of intellectual obstacles began.
“You’d better…” the priest whispered, only to find her gone.
“Sitter Cy–!” A jostled shelf dumped a sea of scrolls on the messenger. The novice swam doggedly on, “Sitter Cy–!”
“Yes, yes!” the irritable priest growled, eyeing his upset documents. “Serious, is it? The Emperor’s ears need cleaning? The High Archon stub the holy toe on the blessed bedstead again?”
“Wha–? No!” The novice frowned, “At least, I don’t think–?”
“What is it, man!?”
“It’s the boy, father! Marco!”
“Marco, who?”
“Marco Dei Toriam! Keeper Justin’s ward?”
“Ah,” the priest recalled, somberly. “Been found, has he?”
“Yes, father!”
“Sad business that. At least now, he can be put to rest.”
“No, father! He’s alive! Here, in the city! One of our contacts in the Watch sent word this afternoon.”
“Afternoon!? It’s nearly midnight, man! Why wasn’t I told?”
“No one could find you, father…”
“That’s hardly an excuse! Where is the boy now?”
The novice stilled, gulping.
“Well?”
“The, uh, the Inquisitori took him.”
“What!?” the liver-spotted priest snatched up his staff of office. The novice eyed the gilded club nervously.
“There, uh, there was an emergency tribunal. A tribal girl was condemned for witchcraft. Inquisitor Mattanuy took the boy into custody himself. He, uh…” the messenger cringed. “He took him to the penitents’ sanitarium, over in the old university district.”
“That deathtrap?! You tell me this now?!”
The novice turned and ran, narrowly escaping the gilded crook.
“Idiots!” the old priest vented. “Nincompoops! Ninnies! N– Uh! N– Uh! Uh!”
The coughing fit passed, leaving the priest tear-streaked.
“This,” he rasped to himself, hobbling off, “is going to require some skilled politicking…”
Behind him, from the rafters, shadows snaked downwards. When they cleared, the stand was bare, absent one eversteel orin.
She flew over the rooftops of the inner city, brightly lit streets flashing beneath her feet. Bits of brickwork and tile crumbled to her heedless pursuit.
Months – months! – combing every inch of the Renali highlands. And where does he show up? On his own damned doorstep!
Argh! She was going to murder him!
The thought restored some of her calm.
No, she would not murder him, she reprimanded. But she also wasn’t stupid. She’d seen the thing Marco became. She had no wish to face that. The borrowed blade would be a last resort. She would lead with the poisoned quarrels riding her thigh holster. The sedative could put down a raging bull – ten times over.
Below, bright lamps turned to sullen braziers, dwindling to darkness as she neared the old university district. She muttered a cantrip to enhance her night vision. She knew she was near when her shroud roused itself, scenting blood and death on the wind.
Sight of the sanitarium’s gravel drive dashed any hope of finding Marco human. The main doors hung off their hinges, splintered open from the inside. Remains of two, maybe three guards (it was hard to tell) marked a path of carnage.
No mystery what she’d find inside.
An ululating wail shivered the night air.
She swung, tacking toward it: north and east.
That direction would, eventually, take him over the walls and into the wooded foothills. But first, it would take him through the hearts of several neighborhoods. Possibly literally.
“Shit,” she sped after him.
Tellar’s wealth of bell towers and spires whipped by to either side, her web strumming angrily at the abuse. Hump-backed buildings rolled beneath her and wind wrung tears from her eyes.
A half-heard impact of wood and stone changed her course. She chased its echo along a roof’s lip. Below, a cart had been reduced to kindling. Up ahead, a hulking shadow sawed around a corner.
A figure pursued on foot. Her cantrip leeched colors but she was willing to bet that half-cape was grey. The watchman ran with bow half-drawn. He’d do better to run in the opposite direction. Evidence of idiocy notwithstanding, she was grateful he wasn’t raising the alarm. She preferred to work without an audience.
She took the shortcut, over the roof, and launched herself onto the next. Below, she glimpsed the creature, loping ahead. She sped up, crisscrossing eaves and alleys. Working by feel, she locked the arms of her collapsible crossbow in place. It tried to nip her fingers as she braced the string. She’d fitted the poison projectile by the time she crested her vantage: below, a straight street narrowed to an arch. A convenient juncture for quarry and quarrel to meet.
She’d have to be quick… Raise… aim… fire!
The stubby bolt sheared the air, leather fins screaming.
“Damn!”
Sharp as its senses must be, the creature’s maneuverability was scarier. Talons raked up sparks as it spun itself out. For a heartbeat, she lost it in shadow. Then bared teeth insinuated themselves into the moonlight. Reflective eyes made clear the fact it saw her.
She held its gaze as she fitted another quarrel.
The weapon traded endurance for kick, on the assumption an assassin only ever needed one shot. Its limbs were prone to metal fatigue. She had maybe two attempts left before it lost all power.
“That’s it,” she whispered encouragement, “come get me…”
It disappeared through the darkened archway.
“Bastard!”
She pushed herself to keep pace, giving little care to where she placed her feet. Her shroud’s silent quiver gave the only warning.
Midway over an alley, she rolled, her hastily flung web dragging her from harm’s way. The jaws, rising from the darkness, tugged at her boot instead of snagging her heel.
She fired blindly, hearing the bolt bite brickwork.
“Pox!” she swore.
Clay tiles splintered under her. Imagined claws spurred her, through gritted teeth, to the high-ground of a chimney stack.
Last shot, she thought, sights sweeping the silent roof’s edge.
The fall had winded her and pulled something in her hip. She wasn’t speeding anywhere. So she drew her shroud around her.
As it rose, the roof-scape warped before her eyes. Stone and mortar, that had never known life, paled. But vibrant death trailed in the creature’s wake, clear as any blood trail.
It was getting away.
Gasping, she pushed herself upright. From on high, the beast’s intent was clear. While it ran the maze of alleys, she cut across the roofs, arriving first at the nearby square.
She crouched at the ready, crossbow balanced on her elbow. The shroud would silence her shot. She just hoped it wouldn’t steal too much piercing power, or interfere with her aim.
Her quarry neared.
Where sleeping citizens were faint stains, caught in the fabric of the shroud, the creature was a nucleus of color so dense it glowed.
Proximity let her pick out details: the roll of its shoulders and the pad of its feet. At the edge of the square, it hesitated, rising to its hind legs. Could it sense her, waiting for it?
She ground her teeth as it made to turn around. Then it whipped back, fur on end and fangs bared. Frowning, she followed its gaze.
In the dead center of the square, a pool of ink spun in lazy circles. She’d never seen its like. She dispelled her shroud for a better look... and forgot herself, standing agog.
There towered a golden woman, wearing the richest robes and headdress she’d ever seen. A jeweled stole dripped swathes of silk, pearls caught dark hair up into curving horns. A porcelain mask suggested slumbering eyes and a serene mouth.
Something bright clattered onto the cobbles: a slave collar, carved in silver and studded with stones. Its chain trailed up and into one of those voluminous sleeves, as if into oblivion.
If her reaction was wonderment, the creature’s was rage. Its full-throated roar reclaimed her attention. She caught just a glimpse of it as it went racing across the square.
“Dammit!”
Hastily, she hefted her crossbow, squeezing the trigger–
Air whipped her ear as an arrow sped past. She didn’t flinch by much. But her shot went wide anyway, skittering across the square.
“Son of bitch!” she whirled.
The watchman – watchwoman, she corrected – was already fitting another arrow. She watched the idiot dash into the empty square… and promptly vanish. A faint disturbance hung in the air.
“Ah, balls…” she realized.
The recalled shroud gentled her descent and showed her, more clearly, the swirling gateway from before. Even the specter’s full attention couldn’t pierce through to the other side. There was no telling where it led.
“Not like I had anything else lined up,” she hobbled on.
As she neared, there was an odd sensation. Like a soap bubble, popping against her lips. For a moment, she tasted snowmelt and spring pollen. Then nothing. The gateway was gone.
She’d been too slow.
A litany of curses and recriminations spooled silently through her head. Without urgency, she unstoppered a phial of pain tonic.
“Damned Marco,” she scorned, throwing it back in one gulp.
