Chapter Four

 

 

Argush paced within the command tent which had once belonged to the exiled Ekirani. His taloned hands opened and closed in frustration. Night was close, less than an hour away, and he wanted to be hunting with his brethren, pursuing the scent of blood and glorying in the kill, wanted desperately to succumb once more to the bestial part of himself, the part grown strong since he had first received Shira’s blessings. But as much as he might wish to give the beast within him rein, he knew he could not. The beast was powerful and strong, implacable and unstoppable in its crimson fury, but the beast was a creature of instinct not thought, a creature of wants and urges, of needs, and one which cared nothing about leading an army or planning an assault.

He started toward the chair behind the small collapsible table, meaning to sit. But then he saw the broken wreckage of the chair and table and remembered that he had destroyed both hours ago in a fit of rage. The shadow, Sevrin, had failed Shira and him. His plans to undermine Valeria and destroy Alesh and the others had come to naught. If that weren’t bad enough, the Broken had betrayed their cause, fleeing into the forest with—if the rumors were to be believed—a young girl who was dear to Alesh. Argush wanted that girl, wanted to hunt her and the Broken down and exact from them the suffering and pain that he could not extract from Alesh himself, for he still cowered behind the walls of Valeria.

Sevrin had failed. The Broken had failed as well. But what Argush could hardly believe, what he had difficulty even comprehending, was that he had failed. Despite all the powers given to him by Shira, despite his new form and the thousands of the night’s creatures which were his to command, he had been defeated. His talons worked, and he snarled angrily at the thought of how close he had come to destroying Alesh, to ridding himself of the man who had disrupted his plans time after time.

In that battle, he had even lost the Proof, the speaker of Shira’s will, who fell to Alesh, who had possessed such power that Argush had found himself frightened. And that, perhaps, had angered him more than all the rest. Yet Alesh would have been defeated no matter the powers he had been given by Amedan, the fool god, had the men not shown up with their Evertorches.

Argush had been surrounded by the night’s creatures and so largely shielded from the incredible, awful light those instruments produced, but what radiance had fallen on him had brought with it a pain worse than anything he had ever imagined. And so he had fled. He had thought nothing at that moment of the revenge he had coveted against Alesh for so long, even though the man was weakened, and that it would have been an easy thing to charge forward, killing him. He had not taken into account Shira’s wishes, her orders to sneak into the city and destroy it from within. He had fled the Evertorches, charging blindly back into the safety of the waiting darkness like a hurt beast seeking sanctuary. Even now, he felt ashamed at the terror he had felt.

He promised himself it would be different the next time, promised himself that he would have his revenge, and that Alesh and all those he loved would suffer. Yet, the promise did little to quell the rage—and more than a little fear—that warred within him. Rage because he had come so close to destroying the object of his hate only to be beaten at the last moment, and fear because Shira was not pleased. The Proof had always been at his side, largely acting as the translator of the Goddess of the Wild’s will, but now he was dead. The only communication Argush had received from her since the Proof’s death had been words that had echoed in his mind like thunder with such incredible power that he’d felt as if he would burst apart from the force of it.

Go to the army. Find the traitor. Prepare.

Those words and those words only, spoken in a moment, yet it had felt like an eternity to him as he had screeched and writhed on the ground where he had been gathered with his nightlings. When he had risen, gasping and panting and weak, he had caught several of them eyeing him, perhaps considering if he were weak enough to move against. But none chose to do so, and he thought that, somehow, their feral minds understood what had transpired and dared not risk the goddess’s ire.

The one benefit, he supposed, to being forced to take command of the army was that he did not have to suffer those constant stares from the creatures as they considered ways that they might attack him and take his place, for if any law of the wild was immutable, it was this—the strong eat and the weak are eaten. He had not dared to bring the creatures into the army camp, knowing that although the men and women who had gathered to serve Shira did so out of a thirst for violence, they would not have reacted well to the true servants of the goddess roaming their midst. They would have been afraid and would have been right to be so, for though he might command the nightlings, Argush doubted he would have been able to stop them from feasting on the army.

So instead, he had left the nightlings hidden well over a mile away where their numbers continued to grow far enough away from the army camp that he had hoped to keep the two groups separate. But, if the rumors floating around the camp were to be believed, some of the creatures had ignored his orders and ventured close, likely intending to feast on any foolish enough to stray too far from the lights of the campfires and the relative safety of their brethren. There were whispers in the camp of shadows roaming the darkness, seen for but a moment only to vanish once more, and though Kale downplayed them to his lieutenants, discounting them, he knew well enough what they were. The nightlings were not troops to be cordoned off, to sit at campfires and play cards or dice, to tell jokes and stories. They were beasts, powerful, hungry predators whose only entertainment came in the crimson flow of their prey’s blood as it filled their mouths.

He knew that he had to act soon—whether Shira spoke to him or not—but he wanted to find the Broken first, and more importantly, the girl. For the stories said that Alesh had been traveling with her and others for some time now, and if she was indeed the one who had been so close to Alesh for so long, she would serve as leverage against the man, perhaps enough to force him out of the walled city in which he hid.

But so far, the men had found nothing. And so Kale had sent the nightlings out as well, knowing full well the creatures cared nothing for taking prisoners and that, should they find the two first—which seemed likely—they would kill them both. Not an ideal outcome, yet one far better than letting the fugitives escape. The Broken knew too much about the army’s numbers and strengths to risk him getting away, and even if he were unable to use the girl as leverage, at least Argush would gain some satisfaction in the pain her death would cause Alesh.

“Chosen?” A voice came from outside the tent, interrupting Kale’s thoughts, and he bared his teeth in annoyance.

“A moment,” he said, grabbing his robe from the ground where it had fallen when he broke the chair. He put it on, pulling the hood down to cover most of his face, counting on it and the dim light of the single candle burning in the tent to conceal the scales covering his body and the other changes Shira’s blessings had given him.

“Come in,” he said when he was finished, lingering at the back of the tent where the gloom was greatest.

The man who came was pale, his weak, human eyes shifting around the tent and the shadows clinging to the edges of it as if he couldn’t find Argush. His uniform marked him as one of the army’s scouts, one of the few soldiers who actually was a soldier instead of a clerk or a candle-maker.

“What news?” Argush asked.

The scout jumped as if preparing to flee, but gained control of himself a moment later, turning to finally gaze in the direction in which Argush stood. “F-forgive me, Chosen,” he said, “I am sorry to disturb you. I know it is late an—”

“Tell me why you have come,” Argush said, focusing on speaking in the human tongue instead of the growling tongue of the nightlings.

The man swallowed hard, and Argush realized he hadn’t managed to keep the impatience from his voice. “O-of course, Chosen,” the scout went on. “I-it’s about t-the Ekirani, sir, and the girl. I was sent to tell you…I mean…that is…”

Argush leaned forward with impatience, his taloned hands knotting into fists at his sides. “Speak. Have they been found?”

The man’s eyes went wide, so wide they looked as if they would pop out of his skull. “Sir,” he said, “y-your face…”

Argush only realized then that as he had leaned forward in his frustration at the man’s inability to get to the point, the hood of his robe had fallen back. Still, the man had not screamed and run as he might have, so he could only hope the gloom had covered most of it, and he quickly pulled the hood up once more. “It’s fine,” Kale said, “only a rash. My healers say it will be gone within the week. Now, tell me—what have you to report?”

A different man—or any man, in truth—might have missed the dubious, suspicious frown on the scout’s face, hidden as it was by shadows, but Argush was more than a man, and he saw it clearly enough. Still, the scout began speaking a moment later. “We haven’t found them, sir. However, one of the men reported finding a body in the woods—probably a bandit.

Argush struggled with the fury that bloomed in him at hearing that the scouts had, once more, failed to find a young child and the Ekirani, struggled not to give in to his bestial side which wanted to vent its frustrations on the man standing before it, to rent and tear and kill and, in doing so, make its displeasure inarguably known. It was a near thing, and he focused on the last thing words the man had said with a desperation bordering on panic. “The bandit,” he said, realizing as he spoke that his breathing was heavy, labored. “The…corpse. It was the work of the Ekirani?”

The scout’s face paled further, sensing, perhaps, the depth of Argush’s displeasure—though, of course, he did not know him as Argush, only as Kale, the weak man he had once been. “I-it was hard to say for sure, sir. The wounds might have been caused by that weapon he carries but—” The man’s voice cut off in a screech as Argush bounded toward him in one leap, jerking him up by the throat.

“You come to me with news that is not news and expect that you will not be punished for yet another failure?” he hissed.

“C-Chosen,” the man rasped, barely able to force the words out past the hand constricting his throat, “t-there’s something else.”

Argush held him for another moment, wanting to kill him, to feast on his blood and flesh. Killing the scout would do no good, he knew, would only serve to increase the rumors around the camp and short his army another man, but it would feel good, he knew that too, the animal side of him calling out for the man’s blood, hungry as it always was, angry as it always was.

In the end, it took all his will power to resist the urge for violence but resist it he did. Barely. He set the man down again, walking back toward the shadows at the other end of the tent before turning.

“Speak,” he said, panting now, saliva building in his mouth. “Quickly.”

“T-there was another bandit,” the man croaked, and Argush turned to see him rubbing at his throat where his scaled hands had scratched the skin.

“Another corpse, you mean?”

“N-no, Chosen,” the scout blurted, thinking, it seemed, that he was very close to being killed outright which was no more than the truth. “This one was alive.”

Argush frowned. He had not met the Ekirani known as the Broken personally, but from all that he had heard, the man was not one to leave a job undone, a warrior greater than any before him, some said, though Argush doubted that very much. Skill with a blade was all well and good, but it was not a part of the man, no matter how much talent he might have, and he could never be one with it, could never wield it the way a creature of the night might wield its fangs or claws. Still, he found curiosity making its way past his anger. “Alive, you say?”

“Y-yes, sir,” the man gasped.

“And was he questioned?”

“Yes, Chosen, but my commander thought it best that we bring him to see you personally. He’s outside the tent if—”

“Bring him,” Argush said. “Now.”

The scout needed no more urging, and though he tried to hide his relief at escaping Argush’s presence, more than a little showed through in his features. He sketched a hasty bow and was out of the tent flap a second later.

He returned in a moment, pushing another man before him. The man’s clothes were filthy and not just from the blood stains marring his tunic and trousers. His hair was lank and tangled with dirt, and Argush’s increased sense of smell made the man’s strong body odor almost unbearable. The man stumbled and would have fallen had the scout not caught him by the back of his shirt and held him upright. After a moment, the bandit looked up, and Argush saw that one of his eyes was swollen shut, his face mottled with black and purple bruises, no doubt evidence of the questions he’d been asked.

“P-please,” the man rasped, “I ain’t done nothin’, alright? I don’t—”

“Silence,” Argush growled, and the man cut off. Then Argush turned and glanced at the scout standing uncertainly at the tent flap, unsure if he should remain.

“Leave us.”

Again, the scout demonstrated a complete willingness to escape, vanishing through the tent flap without so much as a word, but Argush barely noticed. He was studying the man cowering before him. “You are a bandit, then? A thief who waits in the woods for defenseless victims?”

The fear faded from the man’s face at that, replaced by a sullen, angry look. “Ain’t no bandit, leastways I ain’t never stole nothin’ in my life, not ‘til recently. I’m a farmer by trade, and a damned good one. But with those, those beasts roaming the night, killin’ my livestock and me without enough coin to provide light for ‘em, I can’t make a livin’. And I’ll tell you this, whoever the fuck you are, if it’s between watchin’ my family starve and stealin’ from those as have plenty more where that come from…well, I ain’t gonna lose no sleep over it.”

“People like an Ekirani with tattoos all over his body and a young girl? The two you attacked in the woods?”

“Didn’t attack nobody,” the man said. “I ain’t never hurt another soul in my life. Leastways, we wouldn’t have attacked him, he’d just given us what coin he had. Weren’t no cause for him to kill Jim as he did. Jim’s an artist, a damned fine one too, but folks ain’t got much time for art, they can’t even afford to feed themselves and their families. He was just tryin’ to get along like anyone else, then that fucker damn near split him open.”

“And what of you?” Argush asked. “Why are you not as dead as your friend is? Did you leave him to die and run, is that it?”

The man grunted. “Wouldn’t ‘ave done that. Look, I ain’t no coward. Call me a bandit, you want to, but I ain’t never run from a fight in my life, and I got the scars to prove it. Anyway, the fucker was gonna kill me, I ain’t got no doubt of that. I had him, for a minute there, but the damned girl struck me from behind when I weren’t lookin’. I was just about out of it then—just about but not all the way. Heard them talkin’ about it, killin’ me, that is. Him wantin’ to, the girl tellin’ ‘em no, and me just lyin’ there able to breathe and no more’n that.” He shrugged. “Anyhow, I guess I must’ve passed out, about then, on account of I don’t remember nothin’. In the end, I reckon he left me alive, and when I came fully to, it was night and your men were shakin’ me awake, Jim’s body not even cold beside me.”

That was interesting. Argush wondered about the girl, about what powers she might wield to sway the Broken to her cause, to control a man who, by all accounts, was said to be uncontrollable. A killer, it was said, none better, and certainly what Argush heard while arriving at the camp—news about more than a few challengers who had questioned the Ekirani’s leadership only to be cut down quickly and efficiently—supported that. Yet, somehow, where no man could defeat him, the Ekirani had instead been defeated by a child. Had some new god entered the fray, giving her powers to control the exile? That must be it, for Kale could think of no other way she might hope to exert her will on such a one as the Ekirani. It was troublesome news, news he knew he would have to share with Shira when they spoke again. A conversation, he had to admit, that he did not look forward to. But that was for later. For now, the bandit still stood before him, his back straighter, having regained some of his resolve, his will at recounting what had happened to his friend, feeling as if somehow they had been wronged instead of the man and girl they had attacked.

“Surprised the bastard could fight at all, the wound he had,” the man muttered, shaking his head. “You ask me, he’s just a hop and a skip away from the Keeper’s Fields and no mistake.”

Argush narrowed his eyes at that. “What are you talking about?”

The man grunted, shaking his head. “That damned bastard with all the tattoos, the one you were askin’ about, the one as did for Jim. Somebody poked a hole in him, that’s for damn sure, someone tryin’ to kill him, I reckon, and from the looks of him it seems they’ll get their way. Bastard was all stained with blood, barely able to stand upright. If it hadn’t been for that damned girl grabbin’ a tree branch and brainin’ me when—”

“Quiet,” Argush snapped, his thoughts racing. So, the Ekirani was wounded. It explained what had been found among the dead men in his tent, the woman clutching the bloody knife, one far too small to have caused any of the wounds he had seen on the corpses he’d examined. She hadn’t attacked the Ekirani then. How she had managed to wound him when several armed men had proven incapable of it Argush didn’t know, and it didn’t matter in any case. Neither did he care why she had done so. What mattered was that she had, and that the Ekirani was on the run saddled not only with a small girl but also with a serious wound. Which meant he would need to stop soon, would be forced to tend to it, to give his weak, human body time to heal.

Argush grinned, baring his teeth in the gloom, his blood pumping as his spirits rose at the prospect of the hunt. For there was another benefit to the Broken taking the wound. The nightlings, like Argush himself, could detect the scent of blood from incredible distances. After all, they were predators and few things attracted predators’ attention like the scent of wounded prey. If the man was hurt, it should be an easy enough thing to track him down in the darkness. “Which direction did they go?” he hissed, so excited that he did not focus on sounding human, on sounding like the commander of an army instead of a beast.

The bandit frowned, taking a step back and narrowing his eyes to peer into the gloom. “S-south west, I think,” he said. “Hey, wait a minute, your teeth they’re…”

Perhaps the man had really good vision or, more likely, Argush had moved closer to him in his excitement without even realizing it. Certainly, he now stood nearer to the man than he had. He clamped his mouth shut in order to hide his unnaturally long fangs and brought his hands behind his back swiftly as if clasping them there, but judging by the panicked, stricken look on the bandit’s face, it was too late.

“What the fu—” the bandit began, but he never finished what he had started to say. It was too late, the man had seen too much, and Argush pounced on him, feeling a great wash of relief that overrode any sense of caution or self-reproof for allowing his true self to be seen. The man let out the beginning of a surprised squawk, but barely made a sound before Argush’s fangs sank deep into the side of his throat.

Warm blood filled his mouth and for a time all rational thought left Argush as he feasted, his only thoughts—if thoughts they could be called—crimson ones, as his fangs bit into the man’s flesh again and again. In moments, the bandit stopped struggling, his life seeping out onto the floor of the tent in a spreading stain, but still Argush went on, feeling a pleasure beyond belief as the bestial side was finally set free.