The Knife Of Sorrows, page 12
part #2.50 of The Blood And Steel Saga Series
But she will succumb to it in the end. Everyone will in their own way. Death waits for no-one…
The Tarrazi’s knife flashed across his vision; Markus grabbed their hand and twisted their wrist away, before letting go and stepping in and driving his sword up into the man’s chest.
A shudder went through them; the bronze knife slipped from their grasp.
Markus leaned in to their ear.
“…and neither do I.”
He stepped back and withdrew the knife, letting the Tarrazi fall to the ground and lie still in a crumpled heap, finally succumbing to their wounds.
Wiping his weapon clean – with swarms of flies circling above his head and the numb voice still echoing between his ears – Markus thought of vengeance and sighed.
To death, a deed is done.
Chapter 14
Deception
Xafiri adjusted his ill-fitting armour and muttered a quiet apology to Kand’u, God of the Warrior, as he approached the southern gates with hasty strides and his head held low. He knew Kand’u would be frowning at him from His gilded home high above, wondering what the little warrior-pretender was thinking going out into the trees in search of an omen. Xafiri’s armour hardly fitted over his torso; his boots clunked and clattered, with the leather straps already as tight as they could go; the spear trussed against his back was three sizes too large, designed for a much larger man and a much more able hunter. He looked out of place, in many ways – he looked like a fool, in every respect of the word. Somewhere above, Kand’u was probably wondering whether it was more appropriate to scold Xafiri, or mock him for how stupid he looked.
And, as one of the leg-plates started sliding down Xafiri’s thigh and nearly dragged his cloth breeches down with them, the warrior-pretender could hazard a guess at which one Kand’u would pick.
I’m taking a massive risk doing this… and not a very logical one at that, Xafiri acknowledged with a grimace, tightening his chest-plate against the scars he had sustained in the fire trial. Kand’u blessed my father in this armour long ago, during his battles with the Darbesh slavers in the south. The entire hunting party received His blessing, and they carried it through to victories for many battles to follow. My father hung his armour up several years ago now, following his long service to the tribe… and the suit has remained there ever since. Xafiri sighed.
Even though he did not.
He drew a hand over the chitin plates protecting his forearms, and shook his head. And who knows? Perhaps the armour still yields Kand’u’s blessing after so many years. Perhaps Kand’u will come to my aid, when facing whatever evil cast that lightning earlier today. Because I know I will need every ounce of luck if I’m to do this and come out of it alive…
Looking skyward, Xafiri kissed two fingers and placed them on his chest.
Deserving or not... I need every chance I can get.
As the thought came, a fly buzzed past his face and drifted very close to his left eye: lifting a hand to swat it against his cheek, Xafiri stopped himself and shook his head, deterring the insect from coming any closer and spoiling the marks on his face.
Spoiling the sins I’ve committed, he remarked, letting loose a long and painful breath.
Before he had left home, Xafiri had filled the water basin in his room and stared down at his reflection on the surface, considering his fate and the path that lay ahead. He knew what had to be done to follow the hunters out into the trees, and the shame he had to bring on himself to do so.
For a long while he had looked at the clay powder, and the vial of black liquid on the counter at his side. He considered his fate as he did so, and the consequences of his actions. He knew there would be no going back once he did the condemnable thing: but in the same breath, he also felt he had little other option.
So, squaring his jaw with a muttered prayer, he dipped his feather quill into the black liquid in the vial, and placed its end beneath his eye like a piercing knife through the throat.
He had been tentative about it – shutting all the drapes in his room in the hope that the gods weren’t watching – and had guided the feather under his eye with deft strokes. Following the curves of his skin; balancing the weight against his thumb. It had taken a good hour, and the final product had been amateur at best in the end, but he knew it would serve its purpose well enough as he stared down into the basin once more.
To spy his zaz-gûla of a tiny bronze knife, with a single tiny teardrop dripping down from its end…
What had made Xafiri choose a knife as his Proven mark was beyond him even then. Perhaps it was subconsciously sentimental, or was a sign of his endurance against the odds. But in many ways it didn’t matter. He made no plans of being idle long enough for people to question it: its entire purpose was to get him through the gates in one piece, and to imitate the warriors long enough to investigate what had happened in the south. After that – should he survive to return to the village – Xafiri intended to wipe it off and make his apologies to Kand’u then, finding it far easier to ask for forgiveness than try and fail for permission.
Because this is in no way permissible, by any stretch of the imagination, Xafiri admitted, clamping his jaw. Not by Kand’u’s judgement, and certainly not by the tribe’s. To mark myself as Proven without completing my Fendûrii… is enough to have me lanced to death on a burning pyre. That’s not an eventuality I want to entertain.
I have to keep my wits about me.
Ahead, the southern gate honed into view, looming large on its wooden struts with bronze panels to either side. It stood slightly ajar, with a congregation of guards and Tarrazi warriors lined up outside. They were deep in conversation, assessing gear and trading stories, with some of the younger hunters stood at the back chattering excitedly amongst themselves.
This is good so far… I’m glad I’m not late for their departure.
Approaching at speed, Xafiri saw the young warriors look off down the street toward him. They all clasped their forearms one after another, a gesture which Xafiri returned and promptly bowed his head.
Well, the ruse seems to be holding at the moment. They clearly don’t know how many warriors have been assigned to the expedition, and just assume any person in armour is with them. That makes my life a lot easier.
Approaching at speed, Xafiri slowed his pace and caught his breath, watching the first few warriors nod to the guards and filter through the gates beyond. He wanted to avoid having any interactions with them for as long as he could, as he knew the powder marks that covered his burns would give him away eventually.
Best stay back and stay quiet, he considered.
And not tempt fate with stupid mistakes.
Xafiri watched the warriors slowly disperse out of he gate, slipping between the wooden pillars and out into the trees beyond. The younger warriors – who had stood expectantly awaiting his arrival – turned their attention back to the task at hand and followed their compatriots through the gap.
Xafiri smirked and picked up the pace again.
Now’s my time.
Catching up with them as the last two warriors slipped away, Xafiri felt his heart in his throat and crossed the empty space toward the guards. He whispered a quiet prayer as he did so, passing between the first two guards without question, moving on to the dormant spears of the next two guards––
Before an outstretched hand fell to his chest and stopped him in his tracks.
The floor seemed to open up beneath him, ready to swallow him whole.
Looking up into the guard’s face, Xafiri took in their resolved expression and tried to swallow the wedge in his throat. Nothing on their face offered him any idea of why he’d been stopped. For all he knew, the gig was up, and he was about to have his knees broken by a guard’s stiff boot.
Do something, his mind screamed, sweat streaming down his back. Do something. Do something.
Anything.
Something.
Something––
“Az-kabza,” Xafiri said, with a false confidence that betrayed his very-real fear.
Looking down on him, the old guard studied him for a moment. His face remained stony and cold.
Xafiri bristled.
Oh gods…
A heartbeat passed.
Oh gods please no––
The guard nodded their head, offering a quiet smile to him.
“Az-kabza, skal,” they replied, letting their hand fall, opening the route to the gate.
Xafiri gasped and let out a trembling breath.
Shit, that worked?
Realising his luck, Xafiri wasted no time, smiling meekly and striding forward, slipping between the wooden struts of the gate and out into the trees beyond.
As soon as he crossed the threshold of the village perimeter, he stilled the shaking in his hands, looking down the slope to spy the last of the warriors disappearing through the trees just beyond.
By the gods, I made it…
Thanking Kand’u’s mercy in all its forms, Xafiri adjusted the collar of his chest-plate and paced slowly down the slope into the trees, disappearing from sight moments later into the deep labyrinth of the forest.
He kept his distance as the warriors moved through the trees, remaining within sight of the older hunters so they didn’t perceive him as a threat while also avoiding the younger ones and any unnecessary engagement. It was not a case that Xafiri didn’t want to join with them, he knew. In an ideal world, spending time with fellow warriors would have been any Tarrazi boy’s dream. Sharing Fendûrii stories; complaining about their superiors; partaking in unique little games of strength and dexterity. Things that he knew he should have been doing at his age, forging the bonds to last a lifetime.
But that isn’t how the world works, apparently – or not in my case at least.
He knew his education at the hands of the Zoltha meant that a normal life could never be attained, and although he had encountered the thought many times it never made it any easier to swallow. The other young warriors of the tribe had been raised by local knowledge, and Xafiri knew he had been raised instead by the arrogance of a coloniser foe. He had been taught many of the same things – had experienced many of the same problems, too – but the words had come from an Imperial mouth so the similarities drawn up were moot.
And, because of that, the adults of the village made little acknowledgement whenever he was around. In turn their children, fed lies about his allegiances, were made to steer clear of him too. And the warriors, no matter their age or creed, were perhaps the worst of them all: having seen the dangerous effects of Imperial influence on the sympathiser cities in south Tarraz, many of them thought Xafiri was better off dead than a potential agent of the Zoltha machine.
They see me as Zoltha-kind in every way, ready to be exploited by our old oppressors the moment the time is right, Xafiri thought, looking through the trees at the warriors just ahead. They see me as a threat, and a curse, especially now that the Imperials are back in he south.
If these warriors here were to realise who I was – and how I was really raised many years ago – they would probably hang me from the nearest tree and leave me for the Hounds, using my body as a sacrifice to show the gods that my curse was done.
Ahead of him, another warrior turned back and held his gaze: flinching, Xafiri slipped away and kept his eyes locked to the ground, hoping to avoid any unnecessary attention and the questions that would ultimately follow.
Kand’u is already ashamed of me… let’s not make things worse.
With the sun setting fast overhead, and the orange-red glow of the sky coating the world around them like tree-sap, shadows grew under the thin canopies and shrouded the landscape in darkness. All around them, flies buzzed and diced through the air in droves; alongside them, clicking and twittering bats darted through the canopies like ghosts. Somewhere on his left, a larger animal padded away through the bushes, with heavy pads of clawed feet that set Xafiri’s heart on edge.
The creatures of the night were all around, watching them and waiting.
But even that wasn’t what unsettled him the most in the pervasive, lingering dark.
It’s dark… and quiet, he thought, his hand lingering near the spear at his back. The other warriors – the actual warriors – seemed to sense it too, clutching their waistbands where their knives and daggers lay.
Something about this isn’t right. The gods are unsettled. There’s a fear in the air, setting with the sun.
Looking ahead to where the warriors drew together, he watched as a whistle went up, and the hunters lifted their fists above their heads, signalling for them to stop.
Xafiri ground to a halt and ducked behind the nearest tree, with a white-knuckled fist clamped across the spear-haft bound across his back. Keeping a close eye on the front of their group, he watched one of the old guards extend a finger and point skyward, whispering something under their breath that got lost in the flushes of wind.
Trying to decipher their words, Xafiri followed their outstretched finger, watching the sky there patiently––
As a murder of crows passed overhead, dicing between each other and squawking in a fearful crush.
Ravens, Xafiri swallowed.
So Dal-Guzud walks among us after all.
The birds passed above them and disappeared from sight; up ahead, the old warrior signalled for them to move on, keeping low to the ground.
Xafiri stood slowly and kept his eyes on the sky, watching the clouds there leak with blood.
Night falls, he murmured softly.
And an omen is upon us.
Chapter 15
Blood Sky
The omen paced through the desolate trees and sensed the air shift in his lungs. The omen lay in reams of shadow and reams of bloody sky. The omen studied the open canopies above and the quivering roots at his feet. The entire forest shook around him.
The omen did not care.
Bats swooped overhead. Gnats swarmed between the branches. Scorpions the size of rats shifted through the undergrowth.
The omen paid them no heed, swaying between the trunks absently with long, ambling strides. The dusk light danced around him. Bruises alighted over his skin. A chattering voice tapped through his mind like the busted keys of a piano. On and on it droned, with a repetition that would’ve driven any honest soul mad. But he was no honest soul anymore.
He was not even close to it.
A shiver coursed through his veins and down into the roots at his feet. Worms were drawn to the surface, thrashing about like straggled hair. Somewhere ahead – sensing his presence – a murder of crows took to the skies and squawked their disapproval.
Where lightning quivered in the black, thunderous clouds beyond.
And thunder would shortly follow.
The omen looked down at his arm: the lightning buzzed up his shoulder like a parasite, stabbing across his skin in tiny, needling motions. Waves of it fizzed over his skin. His forearm had started to blacken, matching his charred hands. A stiffness seized in his wrist; his hand twitched and spasmed, radiating electrical energy. The raw power terrified the omen; the omen, in turn, terrified the world. In the palm of his hand, lay so much untapped energy. Untold destruction. The utter, bloody ruin of all things. It was lingering there, tempting him closer. Praying for corruption. Death and madness––
Markus closed his fist with a stifled breath, and let the terror go.
I am in control here.
Repeating the words to himself – in some feigned attempt to silence the whispers that crept through his mind – he carried on through the forest in the rough direction of north, using the setting sun over the distant mountains as a marker.
The night is quiet… things wait in the shadows, he thought, wondering what would entail thereon. The lightning fizzed over his hand again at the tempting thought of bloodshed; gritting his teeth, he dug his fingers into his palm and silenced it. I hope I don’t encounter any Tarrazi out here, in the recesses of this darkness. Their sorrows are already numerous.
Enough blood has been spilt this day.
A wave of despair overcame his tired body; the voices in his mind silenced for a moment, thinking back to the day before.
They didn’t deserve it… none of them did. They were just people… villagers going about their festivities, and I was the intruder who snuck in and stole from them. I took their food and their clothes… I terrified their children. The memory of the boy’s face emerged behind his eyes, hovering there for a moment. They had every right to attack me… every right to kill me, even. But theirs was not a mercy I afforded. Their lives were a mercy taken out of my hands. Death came in a ball of light and the horror of their screams.
Death came by lightning, and by madness.
Looking to his palm, he watched the muscles tense and bulge as the power tried to prize his fingers apart, hungry to unleash its wrath upon the world once more. Its anguish never ceased. It was insatiable, longing for destruction. He could do little to prevent it, in many ways.
And I fear where this fight will end.
Walking through the gloom and the shadow, melancholy claimed his face, eating away at his stern facade like fungal spores over a tree. He took a few more languished strides – his knees snapping and grinding – before he doubled over with no air in his lungs and realised something was wrong.
What’s... happening...
The voices in his head hammered on like nails, dissecting the soft flesh around his temples, forcing him to ply his fingers in there to mitigate the pain––
But nothing worked. Nothing changed. The pain prevailed, mounting to a crescendo against his whim, pressing in against his skull until the bone began to split on both sides––
Markus dragged a shivering breath into his body and sensed something snap in his head. Something taut like a bowstring, relinquishing its hold on his psyche.
