Sun and Serpent, page 11
“Why not?” Dasha asked as she started to undress. “People need to know I am still alive, that their empress lives.”
“Your father is dead. Your family is dead.”
Dasha blinked back tears as the words stung an already-fresh wound. “Why are you speaking to me this way?”
“Because you have to understand, Princess. The world outside the palace is not so nice and protected. Times of turmoil bring out the worst in people. Out here, any man who wants can make himself your master. And all your manners and pretty words won’t make a damned bit of difference.”
“I have you to protect me.”
Elia’s laugh was more like a grunt. “I’m one person, Princess. We’re out here on our own. We need to use our wits, or we won’t last a week. So, until we’re back safe and sound in the capital with you firmly planted on the throne, no one needs to know who you are. Understand?”
Dasha put on the borrowed dress. It was a loose fit, but there was a cord to belt it. The sandals were exactly her size, but worn and hard. She stood up in her new outfit, feeling out of place. It was odd wearing someone else’s clothes. “How do I look?”
“Like any other peasant girl. Now check the larder for anything we can take with us. There won’t be any imperial banquets in the wild.”
Dasha was about to demand to know why she must do the search but held her tongue. Elia was right. She needed to learn to do things for herself if she wanted to survive. They stripped the place bare of anything edible, which barely filled the bottom of a makeshift bag Elia made from an old blanket. They also took a clay jar with a lid.
As they left the house, Dasha had the odd feeling she was leaving home again. She blinked back a sudden burst of moisture in her eyes as she followed Elia across the bare yard to a small well. “What’s our plan?” she asked.
“We’ll hide in the countryside until the danger passes.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“I don’t know, Princess. I’m acting on instinct. My first priority is to keep you alive. Beyond that, I just don’t know.”
Dasha nodded fiercely. But I will avenge my family and take back my throne.
Elia tried the draw some water, but the bucket came up filled with mud. “It’s dry,” she stated, dropping bucket back down the hole. “That’s probably why this place was abandoned. We’ll find a spring and refill there.” She pointed ahead. “We’ll head northwest, away from the river. It’s hard country, but it will take us far from hostile—”
The bodyguard stiffened and muttered something under her breath.
“What is it?” Dasha asked, trying to see what the other woman saw. But the landscape was much the same—dry, brown earth and clumps of low brush, a few trees scattered about.
Then she saw it. Them. A group of people moving this way from the north. They were still a long way off, but Dasha could see the jerky, lumbering way in which they walked. They weren’t human. At least, not anymore. “Elia . . .”
“Move slowly, Princess,” Elia replied, stepping backward. “Nice and easy, back around behind the farmhouse.”
It seemed to take forever for them to retrace their steps the twenty yards back to the house. Dasha’s eyes never left the advancing undead. Elia led her around the back. Once in the shade at the lee of the house, Dasha took a deep breath. She was covered in sweat, not all of it from the day’s heat. Elia took another glance around the corner.
“Are they still coming?” Dasha asked. “What are we going to do? Run?”
Elia hefted her sword, as if weighing a decision. “Running will only draw their attention. And there’s too many to fight. No, we have to sneak away and hope they don’t notice us.”
Dasha nodded. She was suddenly very thirsty again. “Okay. Let’s do that.”
Elia went first, her head bent low as she left the shade and crossed the open ground to the barn. Dasha kept watch. The undead didn’t seem to notice, but they were getting closer. Taking a breath and holding it, Dasha emulated her bodyguard and trod carefully across the yard. Sweat rolled down her back, making her want to scratch or scream or both. Finally, she made it, joining Elia by a large paddock attached to the barn.
“There’s no more cover after this,” Elia said. “Just keeping moving, no matter what.”
“What if they see us?”
“Run. As fast as you can, as long as you are able.”
Dasha understood what that meant. Elia was going to do something heroic, which was another word for suicidal. “We stay together. Understand? If you stop to fight, I stop with you.”
“Princess—”
“That’s an order.”
Elia held her gaze for a few seconds before she nodded. “As you wish, Princess. We stay together. Remain low and quiet. We’re just a couple of field mice.”
Side by side, they left the barn, heading to the east into open territory. Elia took them down into every gulley and ditch she could find, keeping as low as possible. Every so often Dasha stole a glance over her shoulder, but she couldn’t see the undead anymore. She hoped that was a good sign. Still, her heart didn’t stop thumping until they had traveled a full mile from the farmstead. By then she was tired and hot, but they continued hiking.
Dasha thought she was going to die of exhaustion by the time twilight arrived, darkening the sky to shades of deeper purple. When she tried to speak, the dry air and the exertion forced her to croak out the words, “Can we stop soon?”
Elia paused. They were traveling through a flat depression between several low hills. She pointed ahead and to the left, toward the base of one hill. “We’ll look over there for some shelter.”
Dasha trudged along in her bodyguard’s wake. Her feet felt like nails were being driven up through her soles. Her chin rested on her chest, her gaze focused only on the steps right in front of her. She thought she could collapse at any moment. Just keep going. There’s no choice. We flee or we die. And I must live. I have to free my people. I have to keep going . . .
Finally, as the sky had deepened into somber purple, Elia found a shallow niche under an outcropping of rock at the base of the hill. Dasha huddled against the stony wall. The temperature had fallen off as the sun set, and a cold wind blew across the wasted landscape.
“I’ll be right back,” Elia said. “Stay here.”
“What? Where are you going?”
“Just for a look around. Don’t worry. I won’t go far.”
Dasha nodded as she rested her forehead on her knees. She was starving and her throat ached for a drink, but more than anything she just wanted to sleep. She was drifting off when Elia woke her with a light shake.
“Here,” the woman said. “Eat this.”
Groggy, Dasha took the offering. It was a thick rind with a mass of pulpy fruit. She licked it tentatively and recoiled at the bitter-sharp taste. “What is it?”
“Cactus. Eat it. It will keep you alive.”
Dasha finished it in a couple bites. The juice felt wonderful on her throat, but after she finished it, she was thirstier than before.
Elia seemed to read her mind. “We can live off this for a while, but eventually we’ll need to find water.”
Dasha put her head back down and tried not to think about it. Her lips and tongue were growing numb.
“Might’ve been something in that cactus,” Elia slurred as she huddled beside her. “Feel . . . weird.”
Dasha could only nod as she closed her eyes. She wanted to sleep for a thousand years, sleep until this nightmare was open. She imagined she would wake up tomorrow, back in her bed in her room, and everything she had witnessed this day would be just a bad dream. The thought made her smile as she drifted away on a cloud of spun sugar.
The sun disappeared above the thick canopy of intertwined branches, its light only showing through in wan dapples between the layers of broad, dark leaves. Jirom stood in one of the sunlit spots for a moment as he uncorked his canteen. The rest of the company filed past him, heads swiveling back and forth, eyes constantly tracking for threats.
They were traveling light and fast, cutting their way through the dense jungle. The ropy vines that hung from the trees resisted cutting and leaked sticky, red sap that soon covered everyone, making the Silver Blades appear to have just emerged from a slaughterhouse. The air inside the jungle was close and hot and made Jirom almost long for the clean, dry heat of the desert. Almost.
As he put away the canteen, he considered the route ahead. They were traveling through a vast canyon. Now and again they would catch glimpses of the steep black stone walls, rising past the treetops. An hour ago, he had sent Niko up one of those trees for a bird’s-eye look around. The report back hadn’t been encouraging. More jungle for as far as he could see.
“I should have stayed in Thuum.” Three Moons came to stand alongside Jirom. “Wine, women, and cool shade to rest my old bones. What was I thinking?”
Jirom glanced over at him. “Who gave you a choice?”
“True enough. I’ve been dragooned. Well, consider this an official complaint, Commander. I want out of this rotten outfit.”
“Sorry, old man. You’re enlisted for life.”
“Is that all? Hell, I’ll just plop down over there under the shade of that tree and wait for death to take me.”
Jirom reached over and plucked a hairy spider the size of an orange off the sorcerer’s back. Holding it by one leg, he flung it into a clump of thorny bushes. “It wouldn’t take long. This place is crawling with unpleasant surprises.”
Three Moons grunted. It was the same sound he always made whenever he sat or stood up, a low grunt that sounded like an abbreviated expression of countless years piled upon a body. “You said a mouthful there. Underneath all these roots and vines and dirt is a lot of bad mojo.”
“What do you mean?”
“This place ain’t natural. It’s almost . . . well, it reminds me a lot more of that Otherworld than I’m comfortable with. Corruption seeps right up from the ground and infuses everything. It’s all polluted.”
Jauna came jogging back from the forward scouting position. “Sir, there’s a waterway ahead, running across our path.”
“Can we ford it?”
“Perhaps, but Niko said you would want to see it first.”
“All right. Lead the way.”
As they followed Jauna through the moss-bearded trees, Jirom shared a look with Three Moons. “Reminds you of that other place, eh?”
The old sorcerer swatted a vine out of his way, and then flinched away when it swung back toward him. “A bit too much.”
Two hundred yards brought them to the bank of a slow-running stream. There was no sign of Niko when they arrived. Jirom went to the edge and looked down. The stream was pure black. Not deep brown with silt or mud, but black like squid ink. He knelt in the wet mud and sniffed. There was no odor rising from the liquid, but he sensed the unnaturalness of it. The thought of wading across made his skin crawl. There were, he noted, no animal tracks in the mud along the bank.
Niko returned from upstream. His boots were wet, but the rest of him was dry. “I followed it for half a mile but couldn’t find the source. Going around could take a long time.”
Jirom stood up and took off his sword belt. The rest of the Silver Blades were gathering. “Stay here.”
Niko made as if to block his way. “Commander, I wouldn’t—”
Jirom pushed him aside with a gentle nudge. “I’ll take the risk.”
Holding his sword above his head, Jirom walked out into the stream. The water’s bite through his leather boots was frigid, which was soothing at first but quickly became uncomfortable. As he waded deeper, moving slowly to be sure of his footing, numbness crept up his legs as if the water was leeching the strength from his muscles. The stream came up to his chest at its deepest part. Biting his lip as the frigid chill infected his torso, Jirom was heading toward the far bank when he paused, standing still in the moving water.
“Sarge?” Three Moons called over to him. “You all right? Niko, get in there with him.”
Jirom held up one hand for silence as he turned his head, trying to pick up the sound he had detected just a moment ago. He thought he’d heard movement on the southern side of the stream, a soft swish as if something moving through the underbrush. His gaze wandered upward, and a hoarse cry was torn from his lips. “In the trees!”
He drew his sword as several huge, hairy shapes dropped from the branches on the far side of the stream. At first, he took them for great apes, like the kind from his homeland, but if anything, these creatures were more massive, and four arms sprouted from each one’s muscular shoulders. Long fingers ended in curved talons. With a host of bestial screams, they landed with disturbing grace and charged toward him.
Crossbows fired as the demonic beasts leapt into the water. The thick quarrels thudded into furred flesh, but not one of the creatures stopped or even slowed down.
Jirom attacked when the first monster splashed down in front of him. It stood a head taller than him but was whip-thin beneath its mat of ruddy fur. The edge of his blade bit into the top of the beast’s shoulder and stopped. A sharp vibration ran up through the hilt into Jirom’s hands like he had hit a rock. The thing struck back, and Jirom was thrown backward. He lost his grip and his tulwar tumbled into the stream. The beast’s claws had ripped through his leather jerkin and scored the skin of his chest. Dripping blood, he stood his ground as the creature charged at him again, its four fists raised to strike. He caught two by the wrist they descended, but the other pair hammered into his shoulders, driving Jirom to his knees.
Submerged under the icy black water, Jirom twisted the thick wrists sideways. The beast was incredibly strong, but a bestial force rose within Jirom. He strained until the beast toppled under the water with him. He let go of one arm to draw his dagger. Then, clamping his legs around the creature’s torso, Jirom drove the poniard into its chest, blindly guessing for a spot just below the breastbone and shoving all his weight on top of the thrust. The dagger’s point halted for an instant, and then punched through. Warm blood swirled in the water. The beast thrashed, trying to throw him off, but Jirom held on tight with his thighs. Inch by inch, the dagger’s blade slid into its body. After several violent seconds, the beast’s struggles lessened. Then it gave one final convulsion that almost threw Jirom off before it sank down into the darkness and did not rise back up.
Blood dripped from Jirom’s neck and chest as he stood up in the stream, gasping for air. The Blades had closed to engage the rest of the demon creatures in a fierce melee of silver skin and red fur. Claws scrabbled across steel shields, blades bit deep, and shouts arose. Blood—both red and black— spilled into the frigid dark water.
Holding his dagger, Jirom rushed to Emanon’s side. His lover had poked several holes in a demon beast’s chest and abdomen, but the thing kept coming. Emanon bled from several cuts, including a long scratch across his forehead. Splashing through the stream, Jirom came up behind Emanon’s foe and thrust his dagger into the thing’s side with all his strength, aiming for a lung. Matted fur and the flesh underneath parted, and the blade sank halfway up its length into hard muscle. The beast cried out and wheeled on Jirom, which gave Emanon the opportunity to stab his spear into its back. The beast thrashed and stumbled to the ground. Its arms articulated around to clutch feebly at the spear protruding from its spine as it died.
“You good?” Jirom asked.
Emanon swiped at the blood running down his face. “Yeah. You?”
The Blades were hacking at the last of the beasts, taking them apart limb by limb. Two of his people lay on the riverbank, unmoving. Lamnot’s neck was twisted almost the whole way around, his head tilted at a sickening angle. Nothing remained of Meghan’s face and upper chest except for masses of red pulp as she lay on her side, partially curled up. Jirom went to stand over them for a moment. They had survived so much, just to end up here.
Swallowing his angst, Jirom investigated the corpses of their foes. He’d never seen such creatures before. Although bestial in appearance, they displayed cunning that was almost human. If there had been more than a handful of them, they would have overwhelmed the mercenaries. What other surprises did this dark jungle have in store?
Jirom and Emanon crossed the stream to the southern bank. Jirom was glad to get free of the icy water. The deep tissues of his legs quivered as feeling returned. He checked his injuries. His chest was still bleeding. Finding a clear spot of ground, he sat down and rooted through his field kit.
Three Moons stood over him. “The rest of this area seems clear now.”
“Any idea what we just fought?”
The old sorcerer shook his head. His face was scrunched up like he was constipated. “Not exactly, no. Anything I say would just confuse you more.”
Jirom threaded a bone needle, tied off the ends, and started sewing up his wound. “Try me.”
“All right. If we operate under the assumption that this stretch of territory touches the Otherworld, that it’s a weak spot in the barrier between realms, then things are starting to bleed through.”
“Did you see creatures like this in the other realm?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean shit. We were too busy running for our lives to take a tour.”
“Settle down. I’m just trying to suss out some answers.”
“Well, Sarge, I’m in short supply of those. But I know this much: if it’s happening here, then it’s happening other places, too. And if it gets much worse . . .”
“Aye. I understand. We’re running out of time, again.”
“Sorry I don’t have any good news.”
Jirom finished the sutures and inspected his handiwork. The slashes were bound up as tight as he could get them. The flow of blood had ceased. He put away the gear and stood up.
Emanon came over, carrying Jirom’s tulwar and sword belt, both dripping wet. “Everyone can still march. What’s the plan?”
Jirom took back the weapon. The hilt was freezing cold to the touch as he slid it back into the scabbard. “We keep moving. Make some marks for the army, then we press on.”
