The Knife Of Sorrows, page 9
part #2.50 of The Blood And Steel Saga Series
Xafiri rose to a stand again, as the emotions ebbed in his soul. He rolled his shoulders and looked down on the body with a sigh.
You did try, he acknowledged, tightening the pole in his hand, and you failed, in the end.
Looking up to the arena, he took in a great length of air and winced at the pain bubbling across his scalp.
I’ll have to get that checked over soon––
Running feet sounded on his right; the bellow of anger and the hiss of flame followed––
Xafiri turned sharply and brought his weapon up in both hands, stopping an overhead strike from the Proven man who’s fire-pole seemed to seethe with flames, far brighter than usual. His face looked demented in the fractured light, like staring into the eye of a dead-god.
“You… die,” the man spat.
Xafiri threw him off and lowered into a fighter’s stance. Exhaustion wracked his body.
Just give up already…
Without missing a beat, the Proven man levelled his weapon and looked ready to make his advance regardless––
When a strong gust of wind swept up across the square, and his fire-pole was snuffed out in an instant.
The crowd gasped around him; the Verlunz lifted from his seat.
The brute studied the end of it, perplexed, and frowned at Xafiri as if it were his fault.
What’s going on? Xafiri wondered, with a growing sense of dread lifting in his chest. A moment later, he watched the man glance behind him suddenly and shrug at the crowds, gesturing to the end of his fire-pole as if it were a toy he had broken in a tantrum.
And there, within the goggling faces of the spectators, he watched Temusceh lift a vial in his hand and imitate using a striking stone, glaring at the extinguished fire-pole that lay smouldering in the man’s grasp.
Except, it wasn’t smouldering: it wasn’t even burnt at all.
Because he’s been given oil to douse the thatch with, Xafiri realised, clenching his own weapon tighter in his hand. Because he’s run out of ignition powder, which would crown me the victor by default…
Turning back to Xafiri, the man slid the striking stone from his waistband and held it aloft in the air. Lifting his weapon in the other hand, he scraped the stone down the pole in one long stroke, and watched as the flames roared back to life with a menacing, powerful glow.
The brute’s face opened up with a grin; he lowered his weapon for a charge.
And all the while Xafiri stood in shock, not believing what he saw.
Even if I had prevailed… I was always destined to lose.
Coated in sweat, with pain throbbing across his skull, he lifted his fire-pole and looked up over the sky, wondering where the gods were when he needed them.
I need something… anything, from you. I just need to survive.
Xafiri gulped.
The Proven man charged.
Or I’ll probably be dead come morning…
Chapter 11
Zazkan Stor’oma
What a fucking mess.
Markus lashed his blade down and sent a spear of lightning out from his fingertips, directed at the nearest pursuer like an arrow in flight. It connected with a woman’s stomach as she attempted a dodge: impacting against her bronze corset, the woman squirmed like she’d pissed herself, as one leg collapsed and she spewed brown vomit across the dirt at her feet. Markus’ face knotted up in disgust.
She doubled over and wretched again.
Behind her, three other villagers emerged armed with spears and chitin cuirasses, growling towards Markus with the word ‘Zoltha’ on their tongues. Markus hadn’t a clue what it meant: some insult or derogative term, he expected. And part of him didn’t blame them for the accusations.
It’s not every day you see a southerner in your village, wearing your armour with a bag of your food on his back.
He allowed himself a smile.
I’d be pretty pissed too.
Hunkering down into a fighter’s stance, Markus edged slowly backwards as more fighters appeared – including the massive Tarrazi who had thrown him against the clay wall when he’d first been discovered.
He’s my biggest concern, Markus admitted, snarling toward them with his robes billowing in the breeze. The six other Tarrazi – or seven, if he was counting the woman who was still throwing up – were average fighters of inconsistent skill, trained for stealthy ambush kills out among the trees rather than any hand-to-hand combat. But, comparatively, the huge Tarrazi in the chitin plates wore the scars of an entirely different fighter: one who revelled in snapping their enemies in two and watching the blood drain from their bodies, like a fire-drake toying with its prey. A fighter that struck fear into their opponents with a look.
Best keep out of your fighting circle, Markus assessed, taking a few more steps back – but even as he did so, he heard the sound of running in his right ear as more enemies approached.
I need to get out, and fast.
An anger rose and fell in his chest, like a dragon dozing in its eternal slumber.
I don’t want to kill all these people. They’re just angry and don’t understand. They’re innocents in all this.
And I am no monster.
Markus turned on his heel and bolted off to his left, vaulting over wicker baskets and throwing their contents over the path behind him, his breath caught in his throat.
Like a stampede, Tarrazi boots thudded all around him suddenly, either taking off in pursuit or hoping to close him down in one of the many winding paths nearby. Shouts continued to rise up alongside the sounds of running: garbled orders and commands, dutiful and resolute, directing the hunters to their prey. There was no fear in their voices. There was no call for retreat. The tribe was mobilised and everyone was armed.
And Markus was running out of options.
He slipped past another circle of buildings, his vision buzzing with activity. The grey threads of his hair seemed to sizzle on his head. He scoured the path ahead, rounding the next building on the left––
And ground to a sudden, fearful halt, as a pair of Tarrazi guards lurched into view with spears raised, more of them mobilising just behind.
Markus pivoted suddenly to dodge an incoming attack – a spear aiming down toward his gut – and kicked out like a horse to bruise the man’s shin. The guard hissed under the sudden pressure and stumbled back––
Not wasting any time, Markus accelerated away with a wild freneticism, following the curve of the tree wall as it meandered slowly north. His legs pumped and his calves burned beneath him, kicking out and spitting curses to whichever Tarrazi gods were listening.
Well that’s my initial plan down the fuckin’ drain, he grumbled, as the two guards started their pursuit and closed off his path to escape. By his estimation, he’d been less than twenty strides from the concealed entrance behind the bushes that he’d used to get in.
And with it, twenty strides from his freedom, too.
They must’ve assumed that’s how I snuck in, and closed it off so I couldn’t return that way. Corralling me within the walls so I panic and get stuck somewhere.
Clever bastards.
Opening his stride out, Markus followed the wall as it banked slowly right, matching the natural horseshoe of the tree-line just beyond. The swollen sun remained impervious in the sky above; reaching up to his head, Markus wiped a line of sweat from his scalp and exhaled heavily. A general fatigue had started to take hold of his muscles, and he knew his dexterity was starting to dwindle. But, despite that, he remained completely astute in his mind, lending his power to the electrical pulse in his hand and the adrenaline biting through his veins. It seemed to possess him, driving his legs forward as if they were bolted together with steel rods, uncaring of the strain that was slowly consuming every muscle. He was powered by it – no, fuelled by it. A furnace in his soul, exacting its toll for a wish. The wish being to press on, and keep running as fast as he could.
The wish being to survive, and see the ordeal through to its end.
As the thought came, Markus rounded another corner and ducked sharply as a Tarrazi spear arrowed across his path, thudding into a dwelling’s wall right next to his shoulder. A number of shouts followed – angry ones, filled with frustration – and the padding of feet picked up again like a stampede to his right.
This is getting close, Markus thought with a hiss, his eyes darting ahead. This is getting way too close––
Shadows crossed his gaze: A Tarrazi lunged into his path with a bronze knife tucked neatly in their hand.
Markus ground his heels into the dirt, hurtling towards the fighter at speed––
The Tarrazi thrust the knife––
And with a sudden reflex, Markus grabbed the knife-hand and pushed against it, the blade of the weapon hovering a mere few inches from his chest.
The Tarrazi opposite growled, reaching his other hand across to punch Markus in the side. Markus took it with a grunt, before the enemy recoiled and aimed another one at his head––
Markus froze––
Energy engulfed his arm––
An electrical pulse snapped from his fingers and ignited through the Tarrazi man’s wrist––
As their entire forearm tore open like a breach, spewing blood and bone and shrapnel over their clothes.
The Tarrazi screeched and let go immediately, collapsing against the nearest house, holding their arm in horror.
Behind them, more screams and terrified gasps echoed out from the pursuers at the barbarity of what they had just witnessed.
Markus – with flecks of blood against his cheek – looked down at his fizzing hand and the unrefined energy it contained, and found it hard to breathe.
What the fuck is this thing…
A whistling sound caught in his left ear suddenly, as a spear narrowly missed his head and skittered off a dwelling wall next to him.
Snapping from his trance again, Markus kicked out and started running fast with the enemy closing in on all sides. As he did so, the power in his arm tensed and seemed to take on a mind of its own, cavorting over his ribs like prying hands and up around his neck. His pulse seemed to expand, with his heart swelling beyond the usual constraints of a mortal organ. The drumming beats snapped across his skull and nearly threw him to the ground with the force of it. Looking ahead, with blue energy staining his pupils, Markus shivered at the force of the power that seemed to be slowly consuming him.
What is all this? How can this be happening to me? he spluttered, staggering forward. This power… this hate in my system, I can feel it eating away at me. I feel so alive, and so powered, and yet so... close…
To death…
He rounded another house – struggling to maintain his grip on the world – and found himself out in the open suddenly, with patch-work-stone underfoot and the tree-wall jutting up just ahead––
Where there was an opening, about ten-feet across, leading out into the trees to the north.
His escape route.
At last…
Markus picked up the pace, ignoring the shouts and bellows at his back. Ignoring the death that haunted him with pale faces and black marks. There was just a single path, and his pumping legs beneath him, and the opening into the trees just ahead.
His vision tunnelled; the wall expanded across his periphery. Within moments, he was out of the village altogether, passing the gnarled tree wall and scrabbling across open rock––
When a searing pain lanced across his unprotected shoulder, biting deep and tearing through the sinews––
As a bloody spear-head appeared at his side, driven straight through his shoulder, carrying him forward with its momentum––
And he didn’t have time to scream in the end, let alone comprehend the pain that suddenly enveloped his body, as he was thrown to the ground in a tumbling mass and the spear dislodged from the wound, clattering over the rock next to him in several shattered pieces.
Warmth spilled over the stump of his arm. Red stained the beige robe he wore like wine. He reached over to the wound and felt blood spurt between his fingers.
Dark dots scattered over his eyes. The sun above dimmed slightly, and the sky seemed less blue. Blood pooled across the stone at his back, taking his life-force with it.
Looking behind, he spied the Tarrazi approaching with their weapons raised, grinning and hooting like dogs. Among them, he saw the one who had thrown the spear stop a few feet away and cup their hands over their mouth.
“So… close, Zoltha,” they bellowed, to the jeers and laughter of the other fighters. Markus could hardly make any of them out beyond the shadows of the sun. “And so… far.”
Markus tried lifting up from the ground – tried to do anything – but the adrenaline had already left his system. He could offer nothing in response, as death made its slow approach. All that remained for him was a great numbness, eating away at his tired limbs.
Somewhere in the sky above, Markus swore he heard laughing.
“Now… death,” the Tarrazi exclaimed, rubbing the skin around the holes of their ears. “Now… death.”
As the words fell from their mouth, the other hunters lifted their hands and beat them against their forearms, producing a dull, percussive sound like charging horses.
Above Markus, the sky swam in viscous colours, bleeding into oranges and deep greys over the distant mountains. From somewhere nearby, the thud of feet closed in around him, baying for his blood like wolves. He didn’t have the strength to fight them; he didn’t have the power in his soul to drag his body away, just to live those few moments longer.
So much for my comeuppance, and righting the wrongs inflicted on me, he thought, feeling his life drip away. So much for revenge, and ridding the world of another rotten soul. Death remains a cruel mistress as ever, and my task shall remain undone.
Blinking delicately, on the edge of the unconscious, Markus saw a tiny glint of light dart between his fingertips again, before disappearing into a haze of nothing. It was microscopic, and hardly distinguishable in the light. Like the flash of a firefly over a dark swamp. He didn’t understand what it meant, or just where the power had come from. He had no life left to give, after all; his body had long abandoned him.
And yet, in an act of sheer defiance, Markus lifted his hand to the sky all the same, as the Tarrazi drummed and the spearman approached and the blood slowly wept from his body.
Death may come for me in this godforsaken place…
A prayer escaped his lips; a fizz of electric left the end of his fingers.
…but I will not die today, you bastards.
The spearman bellowed.
Markus closed his eyes.
And the last thing he knew before he slipped into the void, was his body being thrown into the trees, as the world was consumed by dazzling, horrifying light…
INTERLUDE
I’ve lost connection with him… I’m not too sure what’s happened. I could sense his physical strain through the Rapture: it increased exponentially, and then… nothing. Almost like he’s disappeared from the world.”
“Is there anything left of him?”
“There is, but its fractious… dormant, almost. I can’t really tell. It’s like the rumbles before a landslide.”
“Then he still lives at least… this is good.”
“How can you tell?”
“The low level vibrations you’re experiencing are another Ascendant’s heartbeat. All those present in the Rapture experience them. And this person – this Markus – can probably feel your heartbeat, too, almost like a drum in their head transmitting across the Rapture.”
“So they know I’m here? That I exist?”
“Not quite… he knows something is different, or perhaps wrong, but he doesn’t seem to know what it is exactly. There’s a block in his comprehension that we cannot get past at the moment. It’s as if you’re shouting through a pane of glass, and he’s not quite close enough to hear you.”
“But I’ve nearly got through to him before, is the frustration.” She sighed. “I was so close, I could… I could feel him drawing into the Rapture at last, and then… he just disappeared again, almost shutting me out. He must see this numbness that the Rapture causes as a threat or an irritation, that he just swats away whenever it bothers him.”
“I understand it is frustrating, but do remember just how much strain this person must be under. He has woken up with a strange connection to the world and no clear way of explaining it… I expect the presence of a voice in his head does little to help with his discomfort.”
“But I have to try and get through to him still. I have to try and bridge that gap and draw him into the Rapture, and let him know that he’s in serious danger. He probably has no idea what kind of threat is currently seeking him. I mean, as soon as the Mother’s soul entered him… I expect the Iron Queen started sharpening her knives, sending her assassins out to find him.”
“Perhaps so… but if I may, I do not believe that the Iron Queen even knows that he exists, or what power he now possesses.”
She frowned. “How are you sure?”
“Because of your connection to the Ascendant Soul, and the certain benefits that power carries.”
“Like the fact I can feel this Markus person through the Rapture, and can attempt communication with him whenever I want.”
“Precisely so… and you can be safe in the knowledge that, possessing the All-Mother’s soul, you are the only person capable of such a feat.”
“So the Iron Queen can’t feel their presence at all, even though she possesses a soul herself?”
“In a way, yes. Under usual circumstances, the All-Mother uses the other Mothers as conduits to communicate with the mortal world: She can see all of Them and speak to Them, but They cannot see each other. And, in that same way, you can see this Markus person, but they cannot see anyone else… including the Iron Queen.”
“Because even though she’s powerful, in the Rapture she’s still just a conduit to me…”
“So the only way that the Iron Queen can learn of Mother Katastro’s successor… is by finding him herself. And the sheer unlikelihood of this Markus person walking up to the walls of Val Azbann and demanding an audience with her Highness … is beyond comprehension.”
