Oathkeeper, p.17
Oathkeeper, page 17
Kuort hissed.
That sort of thinking was exactly what Warlord Xastix had managed to overcome when uniting the Zaur and Sri’Zaur. Did it matter that there were whispers the warlord was mad? Of course, he seemed that way. His ideas were so new. So bold. So . . .
Vibrations from above disrupted Kuort’s train of thought. Up ahead. Rhythmic, but meaningless in Zaurtol, the feel of the sound stopped him, claws still on the stone. No. Not meaningless but imprecise, like an injured Sri’Zaur tapping out a call for help as best he could. Nostrils quivering, forked tongue flicking out into the black, Kuort lowered his belly to the ground light as a cobweb’s kiss.
All his senses told him to go forward.
The training his Matron had given him hissed a single word: Trap.
Belly scales stretched out across the tunnel floor, Kuort’s sensitivity to vibration increased sufficiently enough for him to gut the first of his attackers as they sprang. Whether the assassins had been sent by Dryga, Asvrin, or another commander, Kuort did not know. But as the first stab caught his thigh, he knew he could not escape or outfight them in such a close space.
“Give it to us,” hissed a voice. “And we might—”
“I will surrender it to you.” Kuort tried to make his voice sound shaky, as if death were a thing to fear and life precious. Drawing the canteen of blood from his back, he unscrewed the top and spat his venom inside. Screwing the cap back into place, he began to shake it even as the fangs and knives found his vitals and cut him down.
But it was too late! He slumped to the ground, chortling, a sound like dry leaves stirring. He could feel the lumps thunking against the sides of his canteen. The blood was useless, as now was he. Tail writhing wildly as his nervous system died, Kuort blinked at two pinpoints of light. A glow that would have been unnoticeable in the light of day blazed a bright amber in the dark of the tunnel.
“I’m impressed,” the death god said, pulling him to his hind legs. As he rose, pain vanished.
“You are Torgrimm?” Kuort asked the being. “I had expected Kilke perhaps, or—”
<
“A scarback?” Kuort dropped to all fours, padding closer, tasting the air. “How?”
“The scarback,” Kholster said. “I am Kholster, and you did not run from me or curse at me or even spit your venom in my eyes.”
“What purpose would any of that have served?” Kuort lowered his arrow-shaped head in acknowledgment of a more powerful warrior. “I am equal to many, better than some, but I know my limits, and fighting you is beyond them.” Kuort spared his corpse a backward glance. “What next?”
“I think you’re the first Sri’Zaur I’ve met who might need to go on to Minapsis.” Kholster held out a hand. “Walk with me. I want to know what you see in this General Tsan of whom you are so fond.”
To meet the sister to the Master of Secrets and Shadow, to have completed his mission, and to have impressed the god of death? Kuort glowed, and in that light he saw two human spirits watching him.
“Marcus Conwrath and Japesh,” Kholster explained. “They have never seen a Sri’Zaur impress me either.”
“Some spirits walk with you forever?” Kuort asked.
“Just these two,” Kholster said, “and not forever. They are here now to remind me.”
“Of what?” Kuort asked.
“I don’t remember.”
*
“Torgrimm looks better in farmer’s clothes.” Marcus Conwrath leaned against the wall of the foyer to the home of the Horned Queen and the Sower. Sharing bites of an apple with the soul standing next to him, Marcus watched Sower, Reaper, and the supposedly impressive Sri’Zaur spirit. Could Japesh and he have each had their own apple? Marcus had no doubt they could ask and Kholster would provide, but he couldn’t count the number of meals the two old campaigners had shared over the brief span of years the two of their lives had intersected even if he tried.
When there was only one of something, they split it unless one or the other of them didn’t want it, and even then there had been more than one time one or the other had had to force the other to eat his share anyway. You kept your friends alive in battle as best you could before, during, and after.
“When’s sa last time you saw the hunnert smile like ’at?” Japesh asked around a mouthful of the sweet, crunchy fruit, juice spilling down his chin.
“A better question is where that warsuit of his got off to.” Marcus gestured with the remains of the apple (mostly core) at the empty space Harvester had occupied a few breaths previous. He sniffed at the apple, bit it in half at the core, and chewed, the bitter taste of the seeds something to be relished, in his eyes, just as much as the sweet meat. He held the other half of the core out to Japesh, who waved it away.
“I ain’t looking for him this time,” Japesh snorted. “I get lost.”
Marcus’s laughter brought a frown to Japesh’s lips.
“I don’t know what you think you’re laughing after,” the scowling spirit pouted. “The last time he had to come and find me.”
“That’s—” Marcus polished off the apple in two more bites, talking between mouthfuls “—because you kept leaping around from Kholster to Kholster. There’s plenty of him, but only one real Harvester.”
“Well, maybe.” Japesh sniffed, jutting his chin out at the conversing deities. “If he’d killed me with his bare hands I’d be more of an expert.”
Marcus blanched, but he’d had that coming and knew it.
“Fair enough.” He wiped the sticky sweetness of the apple off on his pants. “I’ll go. You’d know where he was if you thought about it much instead of being so worried about getting lost.”
“How would I know that?” Japesh asked.
“Well.” Marcus looked down his nose at his friend, counting the options off on one hand. “We already know he’s watching Vander, Rae’en, Wylant, Vax—”
“And them Overwatches his girl’s so fond of.” Japesh jabbed his finger at his former captain as if pinning the point to his chest.
“And the Overwatches. They’re all up to their cheeks in this war business.”
“And?”
“And if Kholster’s watching the ones at war . . .” Marcus winked, “. . . then, given how protective warsuits feel . . . which one is Harvester likely to keep checking up on?”
He vanished before Japesh could answer, feeling for the armor like a boat for its anchor. It was true enough that the Bone Queen had taken Conwrath and Japesh from their spiritual rewards to stop Kholster from completely arvashing her husband, and it was further true that she’d left them to keep the new god company, but she’d tied them to Harvester . . . not to Kholster himself.
Swirling like mist through a world of gray cold, Marcus materialized on a warm ocean-view veranda built of polished stone.
A female Cavair, one of the bat-like race common to the seaside mountain of southern Barrone stood very still while an Aern, the spitting image of Kholster save for the colorful facial tattoos and the bleached and braided hair, carved its likeness into a block of stone.
Clean-shaven and clad only in a pair of loose-fitting silk pants, the Aern, obviously Kholster’s Incarna—one of those who were born identical to a member of the First One Hundred forged by Uled—laughed loudly at the warsuit standing next to him.
Marcus knew at once such a laugh had rarely escaped Kholster’s own lips but came frequently to this Aern’s. He was well muscled, his body as honed as Kholster’s, but his chest and arms were covered in the pigmented dye used by the Hulsites at weddings or on holy days, but where the dye was the same, the patterns were not. His looked whimsical, at first, then one caught the design and found depth and beauty in it.
“Why are you laughing at me, Irka?” Harvester asked.
“Because you know all the answers to your own question, silly bucket.” Irka kissed the bat-like female on the cheek and told her to go get something to eat and rest her arms.
Marcus’s eyes bulged when she nuzzled his neck in return and flew off of the balcony and out into the salty air.
“Please explain.” Harvester held out his gauntlets, pleading.
“Don’t beg, bucket.” Irka patted the warsuit’s chest. “I’ll lay out the hunt for you.” He walked to the veranda, warsuit following close behind. Irka sat on the edge of the marble railing, leaning back at a treacherous angle. “He is acting strangely because he’s been strangely altered.”
“Who has?” Harvester asked.
“Well, I, for one—” Irka winked, “—thought we were talking about my father.”
“But he hasn’t been altered.”
“Was he a god last month?” Irka asked.
“No,” Harvester said.
“The month before?”
“No.”
“Was he a god of any kind in the past six-thousand-odd years since his creation until quite recently?” Irka closed his eyes, leaning back farther as the wind picked up and blew his hair about wildly.
“I think I understand,” Harvester said.
“I don’t think you do.” Irka pushed himself away from the rail and put his forehead on the armor’s breastplate. “I heard my sister in my head. And I’m glad she is First. Kholster knows I had no interest. But you say Kholster left Bloodmane behind?”
“He did.”
“Exactly how?” Irka did not wait for an answer. “Because I’ll tell you how Amber’s father did it. She used to come visit me out here in the summers and go air dancing.” His eyes twinkled. “We’d have a few of my Cavair friends fly us out to Ripped Wing Point and fish up as much as we could eat. Diving for mussels, trapping coastal lobsters, and crabbing. We’d mate and sleep out under the stars. You’d be amazed the things you talk about lying on a beach with a full stomach, utterly sated and staring up at the stars.”
That all sounded good to Marcus. He’d always wondered what it must be like to live as strong and free as the Aern were capable. He’d even met an Aernese female who took a liking to him once, but as he was already married, Marcus had been forced to leave that curiosity unsatisfied. Nothing was worth hurting his wife like that.
“It sounds decadent,” Harvest intoned.
“Maybe a little.” Irka laughed. “Anyway the point is, she told me when Scale Fist joined with her, it was like moving into a berth in a new squad. There were signs someone had slept there before, memories they’d left behind, but the person was gone. It took over a year before there really was a Scale Fist again, with its own distinct personality, because it held a sliver of her soul now. Her father’s memories and knowledge were there, but her father’s spirit was not. Do you see?”
If Harvester didn’t, Marcus did. Kholster’s soul had burned when it touched Bloodmane, and he hadn’t taken it with him into the afterworld but had left Bloodmane behind—a piece of his soul. But which piece?
“But isn’t that what Kholster did?” Harvester asked.
“If it was . . .” Irka looked up into the bone-steel armor’s crystalline eyes. “. . . would I be talking to you, my father’s new warsuit, or to Bloodmane transplanted into a brand-new suit of armor?”
“I had not considered that,” Harvester said. “Perhaps I should go.”
“Before you do . . .” Casually, as if it were nothing, Irka walked over to a work bench and grabbed a small bag. Its contents rolled together and clicked like two big rocks or marbles. “Give this to Father, won’t you? But don’t look inside.” Irka waggled a finger at the warsuit. “It’s a surprise.”
“Of course.”
They didn’t stay much longer, but when Harvester rejoined Kholster, Marcus Conwrath followed, his mind ablaze with questions. What exactly had Kholster left behind when he had severed his connection with his original warsuit? What piece of him was he now functioning without? What was in the bag? The last question the warsuit resolved easily enough by peeking in the bag after he had given it to Kholster. What did Kholster want with a pair of fake Aern eyes?
CHAPTER 17
A PANOPLY OF SCARS
Wylant shrugged out of the ceremonial cloak, instinctively catching it with a burst of air magic wrapped in a sigh of relief. Relief at being back in her room. Relief that she’d managed to make it through the king’s funeral without staining her robe. Relief Grivek had made the decision to appoint Rivvek as his heir.
Bitter and acrid, the scent of jallek root clung to her quarters as if it had leeched into the stone. Cold air pushed aside the heavy curtain between her bedroom and the balcony, sweeping away the odor in compliance with her will. Gooseflesh raised on Wylant’s skin, responding to the brisk decrease in temperature. A little chill was such an insignificant price to pay for ridding herself, even momentarily, of that scent. Eyes closed, breathing deeply without a hint of congestion or sinus drainage, she smiled—a flash of good humor that faded when she reopened her eyes on the newest additions to her bedchamber.
Her room felt cluttered to her even though the only new pieces of furniture, temporary at that, were an armor stand (occupied) and a cloak stand (unoccupied). Wylant studied the cloak stand, gaining a little extra time before she faced the armor stand.
Why white for mourning? Gray or brown would be so much easier to—
Pondering mourning and the king’s cremation held its own mental trapdoors. Thoughts of white gave way to recollections of brass and steel flowing over flesh and bones, replacing it, converting it . . . Wylant’s head swam with images of her Sidearms’ elemental foci. Grivek would have never wanted them to show him the respect they had at the costs they had incurred.
What on Barrone had possessed them to keep up the elemental display over Grivek’s corpse throughout the entire procession? Frip and Frindo’s foci, by the end of things, had spread over their entire respective hands and up past the elbow on their affected sides. She hadn’t seen Griv’s legs yet, but she hoped his foci hadn’t quite made it to the knee yet, not with war coming.
Coming? Wylant curled her lip. Isn’t it already here, but in disguise? At best it was a conflict in suspension, as fragile as the surface tension on a pond that allowed water spiders to dance across the thin skin, which could be so easily pierced.
She released the wind holding up the white funeral robe, catching and hanging it neatly, in one motion, from the stand the Royal Clothier had provided. Kholster’s scars in embroidered lines of crimson blazed at her from the back of the garment. Why hadn’t Kholster put his scars on her back properly? Everyone knew she was an Aiannai, and burning Kholster’s scars onto her own back as she had centuries ago had gone a long way to making sure no one ever forgot that, but they weren’t the same as his exactly, just a good facsimile. Would that ever be enough?
The embroidery thread, smooth under her fingertips, had no answers to give, and as much as she wanted to hide from those thoughts, Wylant hid from nothing long.
Beside the cloak stand stood a blood oak armor stand, its braces and helm rest lined with blue velvet, the eyes, bolts, and other fittings appointed in polished brass.
Just like it must have been in the blasted museum. I wonder how much willpower it took for the docents and the curator to give it back?
Vax stirred in his sheath, sensing Wylant’s mood.
“I’m fine.” Wylant drew him and laid him softly on her bed. “I wonder what the plaque says. You know there has to be one.”
Was it cowardly that she’d never gone to see the display? She’d been invited but couldn’t see the point in that sort of morose navel gazing.
On the bed, Vax shifted into a chain whip: seven metal rods, joined by lengths of chain, with his hilt shrinking to match his new form, his metal rasping against the coverlet. At the other end of him, the terminating rod twisted and tapered until it was a stylized dart with a serpent-like head. Wylant watched him, a parent dutifully paying attention to her child’s new trick, until he coiled himself with the snake-head in her direction.
“I don’t know how to fight with that, Vax. Where did you even see its like?”
He couldn’t answer.
She wished he could.
Eyes wet, Wylant turned back to her bride’s gift.
It hung from the armor stand, a functional masterpiece: bone-steel half-breastplate and chain with layered black brigandine to protect the abdomen and lower back. Kholster had designed the hybrid armor, long before the creation of the first warsuit, for fighting the Zaur more comfortably. It granted increased flexibility without too much compromise in the toughness of the armor. The breastplate provided an adequate glancing profile. Bone-steel pauldrons, arm plates, leg plates, and boots granted protection against striking Zaur and Skreel blades. Brigandine gauntlets gave her better hand protection than hardened leather gloves. Not much would punch through the bone-steel plates shielding the back of the hand and each knuckle joint, but the grip (made of irkanth leather, like all of the leather in the suit) granted better digital flexibility than any heavy armor she’d ever worn. It didn’t interfere with casting either, like some heavy armor did.
Its visorless war helm with a Y-shaped opening for the eyes and mouth seemed to glare at her from the helm rest. The chain collar, stiffened but comfortable as such things went, hung beneath it. Lines of detail beneath a hard layer of enamel, precursor to the technique Kholster had later used on Bloodmane, lent the helm a leonine cast while keeping the surface smooth to the touch. She was alternately pleased and disappointed he hadn’t given it an actual mane. He’d left it out because giving an enemy something extra to grab hold of made no sense if one wasn’t a nigh-unstoppable Aern. Even so.
She placed a hand on the breastplate, tracing the lines of enameling, letting her fingers glide along its surface as she walked around to the back. And on the back, in the same way, Kholster had (of course) inscribed his scars.
This set had been his gift to her on their wedding day. All the metal was bone metal, and every bit of the bone-steel had been his and worked by him. She hadn’t worn it into battle against the Aern at the Sundering because full-plate made more sense against Aern and using bone-steel against Aern was moronic. And also—well—Wylant knew he would have been flattered, thrilled to see her charge into battle, keeping her oath to defend her people, while wearing his gift . . .
