An affinity for steel, p.73
An Affinity for Steel, page 73
‘It burns,’ she grunted. ‘It … it burns!’
His venom-laced blood went to work with hungry zeal. Her grunt twisted to a shriek as she dropped her sword and began to claw at her face. The skin was drawn tight now, growing redder as the blood sizzled beneath the purple flesh. Her metal fingers raked wildly, drawing out great gouts as she sought to rip the poison out from under her flesh.
The long-faced creature collapsed to her knees and he saw his opportunity.
His knee led his leap, driving her gauntlet deeper into her face and knocking her to the ground. Her neck was a twisting snake, writhing as she ignored the blow and continued to shriek into her hand.
The s’na shict s’ha knew how to kill snakes.
His foot was up and curled into a fist in one breath, then down again in one crunching, choked gurgle. The longface ceased to writhe, ceased to shriek, but her hand did not leave her face. Just as well, Naxiaw thought; he had seen the seething red mass beneath those digits before. It had lost its appeal after he had earned his first feather
There was little time for it, anyway. His ears pricked up again, sensing the sound of metal scraping up sand, cursing from behind.
Oh, right …
‘Clever, clever …’ He turned and saw that the longface’s voice matched the anger painted on her face. ‘But cleverness doesn’t spill blood.’
He had barely noticed her hand without the large iron spike or heavy metal gauntlet that had been lost in her near-fall. He continued to ignore it right up until it slid behind her back and came out in a flash of jagged metal, the weapon flying from her hand and chased by her shriek.
‘THIS DOES!’
The strike was too fast to dodge; he could only angle his shoulder. Even that wasn’t enough to stop the pain. The blade carved through with a beaming iron smile, ripping through green flesh and drawing great gouts of red. He shrieked, staggered backward, clutching his shoulder as the Spokesman collapsed to the earth, at a loss for words.
He could barely muster the consciousness through the pain to see her hand, which had plucked up her companion’s weapon. The blow came swiftly and fiercely, and he narrowly managed to seize her by the wrist to stop it, biting back the pain lancing through his arm.
And still, the spike drew ever closer. She was spiteful in her attack, but aware enough of his condition to smile. She need only press until the pain became too much to bear. He, too, was aware of her advantage, but more aware of the vein that throbbed under her purple wrist. It pulsed, pumping all the blood she had into her hand, with an inviting wriggle.
Naxiaw was not one to disoblige.
Lips parted, head jerked, canines gnashed and the longface screamed. Her life came spurting out in short, sporadic bursts as the sword fell to the earth. Her other hand came up to strike his head with its heavy gauntlet, but he narrowly caught it before it could crack his skull open.
He had only given her frenzy a desperation that drove her to even more vicious strength. She continued to press her attack, her life leaking out with every twitch of her muscles, intent on driving him into the earth itself. She would succeed, he knew, unless he ended it quickly.
He eyed the spike on the ground.
Legs began to buckle under him, but he pushed up with them, springing off the ground and curling six long toes around her belt buckle. His other leg craned down, toes twitching eagerly, violently. The longface spared enough hatred to glance at them, her eyes going wide as she saw his foot grasp the spike by its hilt and, on a quivering green leg, bring it back up.
‘No!’ she screamed. Her voice grew louder as her arms pressed harder as the spike drew closer. ‘No, no, no, NO! That’s not fair!’
‘Shict n’dinne uah crah,’ he replied. Shicts do not fight fair.
His leg twisted; he ignored the cracking sound as he brought the spike up between them. He sucked in his belly to allow his foot to pass up, past his chest, the spike angling upward sharply and aiming for a writhing, shrieking part of her.
‘CHEAT!’ she roared. ‘I’LL KILL YOU! I’LL RIP OFF YOUR—’
His leg twitched. She stopped moving. He felt blood trickle down from below her jaw and smear his foot.
His leap from her falling body was less nimble than he had hoped; his shoulder stung and his legs buckled as he hit the ground. The fight had gone on too long, his body had taken too much of a toll. If they had been humans, he would have walked away whistling a tune. But they were … These things were …
He ran a hand over his bald scalp. He did not know. But he must tell the others.
He plucked up his stick from the earth. His canoe lay hidden in the reeds nearby. All he need do was reach it, row out until he could concentrate enough to reach the other s’na shict s’ha through the Howling. From there, they could make it to friendly territory, the forests of the sixth tribe, maybe. They could deliver their report; Many Red Harvests would gain a new, purple crop to reap.
Yes, he told himself as the blood seeped out of his shoulder and sizzled on the ground, this will work. Everything will—
‘Interesting …’
No … no, no, no!
As fervently as he tried to deny them, as much as he tried to shut them from his sight, from his mind, every time he blinked and opened his eyes, they were still there.
A dozen long, purple faces, staring back at him.
‘A rather unique approach to combat, I must say,’ the one in the lead said.
If he didn’t know what the other ones were, Naxiaw might have thought it to be a female surrounded by burly, hulking males. The scrawny effeminate creature swathed in violet robes looked tiny against the sea of iron skins behind him. Only his goatee gave him away, the colour of bone instead of night like the hair of the females behind him, as he stroked it contemplatively.
‘It looks surprised,’ the female beside him snickered.
This one stood taller and more muscular than any of the ones present, carrying a massive wedge of steel hacked and hammered into a single, haggard edge. The smile she levelled at Naxiaw’s very visible shock was no less crude or cruel.
‘Oh, come on,’ she said, her laughter deep and grating. ‘You thought we only sent two up here? Who would do that?’
‘I am not sure it understands you,’ the goateed male said, leaning forward slightly. ‘I do not think it is even human.’ His face twisted up, puzzled. ‘What is it, anyway?’
‘No idea,’ the large female said, hefting her giant blade over her shoulder. ‘Better kill it.’
‘I suppose.’
Naxiaw did not wait for the war cry, not the tensing of muscle or the groan of iron skin. He exploded first, charging, his stick held high, his plan a dizzy, swirling collection of images inside a head that swam from blood loss.
The male leads, he told himself. Kill the male. He looks weak. One blow. That’s all it will take. Kill him, break through, run to the water, drown. The others will find you, they’ll pull the map out of your stomach. Don’t watch the female. Watch him.
The male did not move at this sudden charge, instead raising a single white eyebrow. Had Naxiaw glanced to the side, shifted his eye half a hair’s breadth, he would have seen the females backing away. The fear that should have been on their faces was replaced with morbid bemusement, as though they expected something bloody and glorious to happen.
But Naxiaw did not see that.
Watch him. Kill him. Kill the male.
The male’s lips started to move, just barely, beginning as only a few twitches. His eyes shut, not with the tightness of panic, but with a gentleness that suggested some kind of boredom. His breath leaked from his mouth in faintly visible lines of mist.
Kill him.
The male’s eyes opened, milky whites gone and replaced with a burning crimson energy that poured out of his gaze. Naxiaw’s stick was up, feet off the ground. It was too late to worry about the crimson, too late to do anything about the inflation of the male’s chest as he inhaled deeply, too late to do anything but strike.
One blow.
But that would come far too late.
The male’s face split in half with the opening of his mouth; the mist poured from his throat on echoing words that bore no meaning to Naxiaw. The chill that enveloped his body, the frost that formed on his skin – those had meaning.
His feet struck the earth, far, far heavier than when they had left it. The blood crystallised in blackish smears, the healthy green of his skin turned quickly to a light blue. The Spokesman felt light in a hand gone numb. His muscles creaked, cracked under his skin. His jaw opened in a cry, of war or of fear he knew not, and he found he could not close it again.
Then he could not move at all.
When the mist cleared, he saw the male, eyes a disinterested white again. The longface glanced to the side, noting the Spokesman, a finger’s length from his head, and clenched in a frozen blue grip. Paying little attention to that, he reached out and plucked something from beneath Naxiaw’s broken nose.
‘Interesting,’ he muttered, regarding the tiny little crimson icicle. Separated from the shict’s body, it quickly became liquid, sizzling between the longface’s fingers. He hissed and shook his hand. ‘Envenomed blood … curious.’ He leaned forward and studied Naxiaw intently. ‘That may explain why this one is still alive, despite being frozen.’ He rapped a knuckle against Naxiaw’s forehead, smiling at the tinkling sound. ‘It is not a pink. They could not survive such nethra.’
‘Well, I could have told you that. I mean, it’s green.’ The large female chuckled. ‘No wonder you’re in charge, Yldus.’
‘Hush, Qaine,’ the male called Yldus muttered, his voice lacking her snarling ferocity. ‘Whatever it is, Sheraptus will want to look at it closer.’ He glanced over his shoulder to a pair of nearby females. ‘You and you, take it carefully back to the ship. And do be careful not to let any extremities break off.’
‘The rest of you,’ the female called Qaine growled, sweeping her white-eyed glower over the remaining females, ‘retrieve ink and parchment. Remain here and take note of the city’s defences: numbers, weapons, positions, everything. Master Sheraptus demands thoroughness.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘And while I remain appreciative of a female’s need to spill blood, I remind you that your duty is reconno … reconna …’
‘Reconnaissance,’ Yldus sighed.
‘Whatever,’ she snarled. ‘You are not to be seen. Whoever objects answers to me. Whoever violates this order … answers to Sheraptus.’ Her grin broadened at the stiffness that surged through them. ‘Get to work, low-fingers. We return in days.’
‘With an army behind us,’ Yldus added, his face a long, grim frown.
There were grunts of salute, the shuffling of metal as the females reorganised themselves. Naxiaw could not turn his neck, could not even think to turn his neck. He could barely muster the worry for such a thing, either. His mind felt distant, as though whatever rime covered his body also seeped into his skull, past the bone and into his brain.
The sensation of movement was lost to him. He could not recognise the sky as two females gripped him by his arms and legs and tilted him onto his back. They proceeded to carry him down the hill, behind Yldus and Qaine, as though he were little more than a fleshy blue piece of furniture.
‘Days, she says,’ one of them muttered, her voice muted to his ears. ‘How does anyone expect us to wait that long?’
‘The Master demands patience,’ the other replied.
‘The Master demands a lot,’ the first one growled. ‘He never asks the females to hold their iron.’ She glowered. ‘Rarely does he ask netherling females to do anything for him, so absorbed with the pinks …’
‘No one questions the Master,’ the other one snarled. ‘Leave complaining to low-fingers.’ She glanced over her shoulder at the remaining females. ‘Weaklings.’ She glanced at Naxiaw, stared into his wide, rime-coated eyes. ‘This thing is hardly heavier than a piece of metal. How did it kill the other two?’
‘As you said, they were low-fingers pretending to be real warriors. They should have stuck with their weakling bows instead of thinking they knew how to use swords.’ She snorted, spat. ‘They die first when we attack.’
‘They can’t even speak right. What was it she said before she died?’
‘“Eviscerate, decapitate, exterminate.”’
‘That can’t be right. It’s “eviscerate, decapitate, annihilate,” isn’t it?’
‘Right. Exterminate means to crush something under your heel and leave its corpse twitching in a pile of its own innards. It is what humans do to insects.’
‘What does “annihilate” mean?’
‘To leave nothing behind. Low-fingers can’t even remember the stupid chant.’ The other one hoisted Naxiaw higher as a sleek, black vessel drifted into view on the beach below. ‘That’s why they’re dead.’
Ten
DREAMING IN SHRIEKS
Lenk had never truly been in a position to appreciate nature before. It was always something to be overcome: endless plains and hills, relentless storms and ice, burning seas of trees, sand, salt and marsh. Nature was a foe.
Kataria had always chided him for that.
Kataria was gone now.
And Lenk wasn’t any closer to appreciating nature because of it. The moonlight peered through the dense foliage above, undeterred by the trees’ attempts to keep it out. The babbling brook that snaked through the forest floor became a serpent of quicksilver, slithering under roots, over tiny waterfalls, to empty out somewhere he simply did not care.
When he had found it and drank, he had thanked whatever god had sent it. When he used it to soothe his filthy wound, promises of conversion and martyrdom had followed.
Now, the stream was one more endless shriek in the forest’s thousand screaming symphonies. His joy had lasted less than an hour before he had began to curse the Gods for abandoning him in a soft green hell.
It was murderous, noisy war in the canopy: the birds, decrepit winged felons pitting their wailing night songs against the howling and shaking of trees of their hatred rivals, the monkeys.
His eyes darted amongst the trees, searching for one of the noisy warriors, any of the disgusting little things. His sword rested in his lap, twitching in time with his eyelids as he swept his gaze back and forth, back and forth like a pendulum.
None of them ever emerged. He saw not a hair, not a feather. They might not even be there, he thought. What if it’s all just a dream, a hallucination before Gevrauch claims me? A shrill cry punctured his ears. Or could I ever hope to be that lucky?
He clenched his scavenged tuber like a weapon, assaulting his mouth with it. It was the only way he could convince himself to eat the foul-tasting fibrous matter. Kataria had taught him basic foraging, in between moments of regaling him how shicts were capable of laying out a feast from what they found in mud.
She could have found something else here, he thought. She could have found some delicious plant. ‘Eat it,’ she would have said, ‘it’ll help your bowel movements.’ Always with everyone’s bowel movements …
No, he stared down at the floor, always with my bowel movements.
He wasn’t sure why that thought made him despair.
‘But she’s dead now. They all are.’
The voice came and went in a fleeting whisper, rising from the gooseflesh on his arm. It had grown fainter through the fevered veil that swaddled his brain, coming as a slinking hush that coiled around his skull before slithering into silence.
He supposed he ought to have been thankful. He had long wished to be free of the voice, of its cruel commands and horrific demands. Now, as he sat alone under the canopy, he silently wished that it might linger for a moment, if only to give him someone to talk to preserve his sanity.
He paused mid-chew, considering the lunacy of that thought.
He grumbled, continuing to chew. It’s not as though you could ever preserve your sanity talking to the others, either. If anything talking to Kat would only drive you madder in short order.
‘It matters not,’ the voice whispered. ‘She’s drowned, claimed by the deep. They all are. They all float in reefs of flesh and bone; they all drift on tides of blood and salt.’
Lenk had never recalled the voice being quite so specific before, but it slithered away before he could inquire. In its wake, fever creased his brows, sent his brain boiling.
That isn’t right, he told himself. The voice made him cold, not hot. It was the fever, no doubt, twisting his mind, making his thoughts deranged. Of course, your thoughts couldn’t have been too clear to begin with.
There was a rustle in the leaves overhead, a creak of a sinewy branch as something rolled itself out of the canopy to level a beady, glossy stare at him. It hung from a long, feathery tail, tiny humanlike hands and feet dangling under its squat body. Its head rolled from side to side, rubbery black lips peeling back in what appeared to be a smile as its skull swayed on its neck in time with its tail.
Back and forth, back and forth …
It’s mocking me, Lenk thought, his eyelid twitching. The monkey is mocking me. He put a hand to his brow, felt it burn. Keep it together. Monkeys can’t mock. They don’t have the sense of social propriety necessary to upsetting it in the first place. That makes sense, doesn’t it? Of course it does. Monkeys have no sense of comedic timing. It’s not in their nature …
He stared up, found his tongue creeping unbidden to his cracked lips.
Their juicy … meaty nature.
His sword was in his hands unbidden, glimmering with the same hungry intent as his fever-boiled eyes, licking its steel lips with the same ideas as he licked his own rawhide mouth.
The monkey swung tantalisingly back and forth, back and forth, bidding him to rise, stalk closer to the tiny beast, his sword hanging heavily. It wasn’t until he was close enough to spit on it that the thing looked at him with wariness.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ he growled. ‘This is nature. You sit there and swing like a little morsel on a string, I bash your ugly little face open and slurp your delicious monkey brains off the ground.’
