Blood's Pride (Shattered Kingdoms) (34 page)

—but before she could move, someone rushed past her, knocking her into the wall. As she struggled to regain her balance, she saw the person run into the stables, straight to Dramash, and hoist him off the ground as if he weighed nothing at all. Just as she remembered where she’d seen that mane of black hair, its owner turned around to face Frea, easily managing the bucking, kicking child she was holding. Harotha saw a long Nomas knife – the same knife she’d held in her own hand – shining against the boy’s throat.

The Mongrel had Dramash.

she heard Eofar say as he rushed back to her from scouting ahead to determine the situation in the stables.

she told her brother. It was true, but it was also true that she didn’t want to open her eyes, or give up the cool, steady support of the corridor wall. The weight of Truth’s Might, strapped across her back despite Eofar’s
exasperated protests, pulled like a lodestone.

he muttered as he tried to lift her right arm around his shoulder without unbalancing her. Her head swung down as he pulled her gently against him and she found herself staring at the knotted sleeve of the clean shirt he’d found for her, watching it inscribe little circles in the air where her left elbow should have been.

Lahlil had left them in the funeral room, supposedly to gather more supplies, but she had never returned, and now Isa was convinced that something had happened to her. Eofar was equally convinced that she had abandoned them. They had waited long past the time when they should have gone, until finally he refused to wait any longer. For her part, Isa would have been quite content to lie in that chamber indefinitely, looking up at the stars through the open ceiling while she slowly emerged from the cocoon of Lahlil’s drugs, listening to Eofar tell her about Harotha, and Daryan, and all of the other things she’d missed. A strange odour had filled that room, not at all unpleasant, a soft mixture of perfume and ash and sand. Isa thought she would remember that scent for the rest of her life.

Together they continued on to the stables, staggering awkwardly. The numbness had given way to spasms of fiery pain, and when those finally abated they’d been replaced by a relentless, teeth-grinding ache. She felt so weak that she could barely lift her head.

At last they made it into the stables, but the room was so
crowded with triffons, slaves, bales of hay, paraphernalia of all kinds, that she could see only a few feet in front of her in any direction. The Shadari subtly moved out of their way, and though no one spoke to them or looked at them directly, Isa thought they exchanged glances as they passed.

she asked her brother. There was a raised voice somewhere on the other side, but she couldn’t make out the words over the sound of her own pulse pounding in her ears.

he said succinctly.

She tried to pay attention to him, but most of her mind was preoccupied with the impossible task of lifting her feet and putting them down again. She vowed that she would never again take her strength for granted, now that she knew what it felt like to be without it. She never wanted to feel this helpless again.

As they approached Aeda, the triffon responded to Eofar’s scent with a nervous, welcoming snort. Isa stopped beside the creature’s massive head, breathless and exhausted.

he asked her worriedly.

She looked into Aeda’s great dark eyes and felt nothing. Her nightmarish fear of flying had vanished completely in the face of the real nightmare she was living – but then, how could anything be like it was before? She had pushed up against the membrane that separated life from death and nearly passed through it. She had lost a part of herself that she would never
get back, and she had found something that, if she lost it now, would be worse than losing her life.

she asked her brother.

he answered shortly, as he tried to lift her up onto Aeda’s back without jarring her.

Eofar climbed up in front of her and began fastening the buckles. Aeda’s tail thumped the ground in expectation.

She had to say it to believe it; it felt so unreal.

Eofar answered darkly, and took up the reins.

Jachad seized Harotha’s arms and pulled her further back into the tunnel. ‘For Shof’s sake, stay here!’ he pleaded as her stunned face stared into his. ‘Let me handle this,’ he insisted a little more gently. He released her and charged into the stables after Meiran, skidding to a halt almost immediately as he stared at the naked blade of Frea’s sword. He tried to ignore the choking stench of the triffons as he flicked his fingers over his palms. Fire blazed up from his hands.

he warned the Norlanders boldly, but he wasn’t fooling them. They could feel his uncertainty and
he
could feel them feel it.

Frea
warned him. Her fury was like a wall of ice, slamming into him. The fire in his hands dipped.

‘Meiran. Let the boy go,’ he said in Nomas, bringing the flames back up again, but he couldn’t look at her; he was too afraid he’d see this betrayal written across her scars. He reminded himself that this wasn’t his fault; she had left him no choice. He couldn’t stand by and allow her to harm an innocent child. He would never be able to live with himself. ‘Let him go. Now.’

‘Jachi.’ Meiran’s expressionless voice was as keen as the edge of the knife in her hand. ‘You don’t understand.’

‘You’re right: I don’t,’ he agreed. He still couldn’t look at her. He wanted to go back to the desert; he wanted to see his mother; he wanted to feel the sun on his face. ‘Put the boy down and you can explain it to me.’

‘You can’t stop me,’ she told him flatly. It was a statement of fact, not a warning. ‘You can’t change it. No one can.’

‘Let him go!’ he heard himself roar.

Frea’s silver helmet flashed; she was looking up at something. He looked up as well, and watched a solitary triffon rise into the air on the opposite side of the cavern. There were two passengers, a man and a woman: Isa and Eofar. He heard an odd, jagged shout, and with a start he realised that it had come from Daryan; the Shadari king’s face was alight with some unknown triumph. Jachad saw him stretch his arm back, ready to fling the lit torch in his hand at the bale of hay behind him.

But in a flash Rho was there, bringing his right elbow down hard on Daryan’s forearm and knocking the torch out of his
hand. It bounced on the ground, spattering the floor with droplets of hissing oil and sending up a shower of sparks; before the fire could take, Rho had grabbed a bucket of slops and dumped its stinking contents over the flames. The repulsive smell rolled past Jachad, gagging him.

Frea commanded Rho.

The fireball had already formed in Jachad’s hand long before his sluggish thoughts had put words to his intentions. He flung the flames upward with all of his strength, feeling the fire leech the strength out of him. It traced a brilliant arc over the heads of the Norlanders and Shadari, and he watched as two decades of Nomas neutrality came to an abrupt and decisive end. Jachad’s arm fell heavily to his side, weak and tingling all over.

The flames struck the hay-bale. For a moment, nothing happened – then the sparks caught the oil, there was a sucking noise and a muffled thump, and the fire rolled upwards and greedily swallowed up the dry straw. A column of winking cinders swirled upwards, caught in the updraft from the open roof.

The triffons bellowed in fear and launched themselves into the air, colliding dangerously with each other in their haste to reach the open sky. Their heavy bodies blotted out the moonlight, and in the deeper darkness the fire glowed more brightly still, sending shadows dancing over the rock walls.

With whoops and screams, the Shadari rushed forward to attack.

A hand gripped Jachad’s arm and he turned in alarm, but it was Harotha, her face streaked with colour from the firelight,
her eyes wide with fervent gratitude but burning with intent.

‘Look out!’ he cried, hooking his arm around her thick waist and swinging her around just in time to avoid a Shadari armed with what appeared to be a roasting spit.

She grabbed his shoulder. ‘Where’s Dramash? We have to—’

But she stopped abruptly as they both saw the boy at the same time, running through the confusion.

Jachad looked for Meiran, but he didn’t see her. He didn’t know how the child had managed to get away from her.

‘Dramash!’ Harotha called out over the noise of the fighting and the fires. She pushed past Jachad and moved towards the boy with her arms outstretched. He turned at the sound of his name and Jachad saw the child’s dark eyes rest for a moment on her face. He saw a tiny spark of recognition – perhaps the resemblance she bore to his father? – but instead of changing course towards his aunt, he ran even faster and threw himself headlong at the unsuspecting Rho.

Rho couldn’t take his eyes away from Daryan’s face. He could feel the Shadari’s scalding blood splattering his neck, soaking into his tabard. His gauntlets dripped with it. He could even taste it, a metallic taint at the back of his throat. The fire roared around them, but he was oblivious to the heat and the danger. Triffons swarmed overhead, beating waves of searing air back down into the cavern, but he hardly noticed; all that mattered was the blood.

Daem’s voice came crashing into Rho’s head.

He looked down at his sword hand. The gauntlet was clean and white; the blade shone, pristine, in the firelight. His new tabard, with its embroidered imperial signet, was immaculate. Daryan stood waiting, quietly watching the tip of his sword.

Daem shouted again, struggling against an ill-armed but frantic group of Shadari trying to go to their daimon’s aid, but before Rho could even think about helping him, Ingeld came swooping in from the other side.

he hollered, charging forward towards Daryan with his sword already drawn.

Rho turned smoothly, and Fortune’s Blight crashed against Ingeld’s blade.

Ingeld trailed off, speechless.

Rho was nearly as surprised as Ingeld, but he understood something now. He regarded Ingeld over their crossed swords and said, simply,

Ingeld stared back at him, labouring to catch up, but it wasn’t long before Rho felt the acid burn of the big Norlander’s pleasure as he took in Rho’s meaning and tightened his grip on his sword. he growled.

Rho heard voices shouting aloud behind him and a heartbeat later he felt a rush of air as a host of dark shadows streaked past him. The Shadari who had been struggling against Daem tackled Ingeld to the ground.

Daem grabbed him from behind and swung him around. he demanded. His chin was bleeding, his cape was gone and the left sleeve of his shirt was hanging by a thread.

he started to say when something slammed into his stomach, his legs gave out and he dropped to his knees. Pain snatched his breath away. He looked up into Dramash’s wide, dark eyes.

The boy’s hands, hot as blacksmith’s tongs, squeezed his arm before flinching away. ‘I’m scared,’ Dramash confided to him in a tight little whisper. A pair of large tears rolled down his cheeks.

‘How did you get away from the Mongrel?’

‘She let me go.’

‘Did she hurt you?’

‘No. She said she wouldn’t if I stayed still.’

Rho lurched back to his feet.

Frea commanded. She was tracing the same path as the boy and was not far behind, but now Shadari were throwing themselves upon her with suicidal abandon. She cut them down, barely looking at them, slicing at them with Blood’s Pride, then elbowing or kicking them out of her way. Rho saw Dramash’s eyes following the faceless silver helmet, the white cape spattered with gore.

‘Don’t let her get me!’ The boy shrank back in terror, pressing his scorching body hard against Rho’s leg. Rho pushed him off with his gauntleted hand.

Was he imagining it, or was the floor trembling under his feet?

‘I won’t,’ he said hastily, moving the boy around behind him. ‘I won’t let anyone hurt you. Everything will be all right, I promise.’

‘I want my mama,’ Dramash whimpered behind him.

Frea stopped in her tracks and Rho saw the black eye-slits
fix on his face. Hollow: that was what he would become if he joined her. Each time he obeyed an order, each time he followed a command, that emptiness would swallow him, piece by piece, until he was a just a shell, as lifeless as the figurehead on the silver helmet.

But Frea really did care for him, as much as she had ever cared for anyone; he knew that now. As she began to understand his betrayal, he felt it stab into her heart, wounding her far more deeply than he could have imagined possible.

he told her.

Daem, by his side, looked from him to Frea, then back again. he said. He heaved his sword above his head and cried out, The emperor!
>

A strange tension sang in the air, a silence completely separate from the cacophony of the room.

From within the ranks of the Norlanders, Rho saw Falkar raise his sword above his head. His battle cry throbbed with a kind of wild relief.