Voice of war, p.22
Voice of War, page 22
part #1 of Threadlight Series
Exhaustion finally took him and he passed out in the corner of the shed, lying in a bed of blood and vomit.
When he awoke, his grandfather was standing over him, a shadowed vignette of relief and disappointment. The shed smelled horrid. Alverax couldn’t imagine what his grandfather thought of him in that moment.
“This must be real.” The old man loomed over him. “If I were imagining you were still alive, this is not how I would have pictured it. When I heard noises out back last night, I thought it was that pesky pilliwick again. Core-spawned creatures. Never expected to find my dead grandson covered in vomit. Well, let’s get you cleaned up and we can talk after.”
He lifted Alverax and hauled him to the house and into the bathroom. The clothes were unsalvageable, so they were tossed out. His grandfather drew him a salty bath and left him with a few towels and some soap to scrape off the blood and debris.
Alverax had never understood how his grandfather, the most selfless man he’d ever known, had raised his father, the most selfish man ever to walk the desert. He saw himself somewhere in between. Alverax was decent, skewing toward good. At the very least, he was a better man than his father had been.
After his body was clean, Alverax left the bath and put on some new clothes. His room hadn’t changed. Then again, he hadn’t been dead for long. It would be weird if his grandfather had removed everything. He found some clean clothes and got dressed. If there was a way to avoid talking about what had happened, he was going to take it. The last thing he needed right now was to explain how he’d died and been resurrected as a new breed of threadweaver.
He left the bathroom and his grandfather was sitting cross-legged on a plush rug in the living room. An unavoidable location. Well-played grandfather. “Thanks for the help this morning. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
His grandfather looked deep into his eyes. “I know I’m old, and you think I couldn’t possibly understand, but you can trust me. I won’t make you—Heralds know I’m not one to force a man against his will—but you won’t find a more willing ear than mine.”
If he thought that meant Alverax was going to tell him everything, he was wrong. This was just the out he was looking for. “I’m just not ready to talk about it yet. I need a little time to process. Tomorrow. I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.” He glanced outside and noticed the sun was already starting to set. Heralds. He’d slept most of the day. If it wasn’t tonight, he’d have to wait another week. “I’m going to take a walk, maybe a swim in the geysers. Tomorrow.”
The old man nodded. “Be careful. I’d prefer not to mourn your death twice.”
Alverax didn’t wait for any more conversation. Back in his room he opened the hidden hole in the corner under his rug and pulled out a bag of shines. He’d need some money to initiate his plan. Tying it onto his waist, he grabbed some food and went outside into the darkening desert city.
As he walked through sandy roads, the sun passed down below the western horizon. The southern edge of the city was a miles-long steep cliff face overlooking the Altapecean Sea, called Mercy’s Bluff. Because the cliff curved around the western edge, the sunset lasted until the light fell below the sea itself.
Towering, stone buildings cast long shadows over the eastern half of the city where the Three Darlings were found. Owned by Jelium, the multi-part complex was home to the vilest citizens of Cynosure, and that was saying something. The three sections were called the Veil, the Nest, and the Pit. The most famous section was the Pit. During the day they raced camels and sandhogs, but at night they raced necrolytes. The stakes were high and the danger was undeniable.
That was his destination.
There were two paths to get to the racetrack. The first was a straight shot through well-lit roads where he was likely to be recognized. The other was through the Nest. He’d only gone there once; his friend had convinced him to go try a pinch of lytemare. It had given him hallucinations for two days and he’d vowed never again. The Nest was where people went to lay mindlessly in smoke-filled rooms with strangers and poor friends.
He took off down the second path with a hood pulled up over his face, darkening his already dark skin. His coarse black hair was cut short with a small strip down the center grown out longer than the rest. He’d inherited his father’s infectious smile—perfect for a conman—but he hid it behind patchy facial hair.
After a time, he arrived at the entrance to the Nest. A pair of able-bodied giants stood guard at the archway. They stood staring down at Alverax and his average height. Part of him wanted to flaunt his new abilities to show them that he was more than what he seemed, but when they nodded him through without question, he changed his tune. What was he going to do? Make them float?
Inside the Nest was a huge stretch of sandy path flanked on both sides by stalls of various concoctions. Some were more popular during the day, general herbs and roots that were helpful for healing. At night, the lines shifted to the back. He could see at least four large lines farther down and a few smaller, with some stragglers vending at the “more savory” shops.
He kept his hood cinched tight and walked forward as he passed the first of the major lines. The next two lines were harder drugs: necrotol and lytemare. They were both harvested from live necrolytes and had major hallucinatory effects while providing certain levels of serenity. As hard as he tried not to remember his experience, passing the lytemare vendor made him shiver. He had no interest in the other three, but the last line, smaller than the others, was something he’d always wanted to try but never had the funds. It was also the most controversial.
Transfusers.
In Cynosure, threadweavers were not only rich because of what they could do. They were rich because of what they could provide. Blood. Threadweavers were paid richly for donated blood. If an achromat drank it, it allowed that person to have a taste of threadlight. As amazing as the feeling was supposed to be, Alverax was sure it was nothing compared to the real thing. He walked past a few eager, rich kids and remembered the tears streaming down his face the first time he’d seen threadlight.
“It’s ridiculous how expensive it is,” one said.
A well-dressed woman tending the stall replied to the young man. “While other solutions can make you imagine things, at the end of the day they are merely imaginings. Threadlight is real. Transfusers open your eyes to the reality that is all around you. Seeing it will change you. It will change how you see the world. A change of perspective is priceless, my boy.”
Alverax scoffed as he pushed his way to the end of the Nest’s long walkway. I wonder how much they’d pay for my blood. He felt like a god walking among children. No one here knew that he was a threadweaver. No one knew the strange power coursing through his veins. Part of him wanted them to know, but he knew it was good to be underestimated.
He slipped out the other end of the Nest and walked through a wide corridor leading to the back side of the Pit. Thousands of people were packed into the outdoor stadium, chanting the names of their favorite racers and mumbling prayers under their breath for a lucrative win. Alverax pushed passed a gang of Alirian men, and a circle of friends that must have smoked a tub of sailweed by the look on their faces.
There were three kinds of people in Cynosure. First were the lifers, those born and raised in the desert city. Their numbers were growing each year. Second were the believers. Somehow, they’d learned about the city—likely from the recruiters that were sent out across the continent—and they’d traveled far to join the anti-state. The last were the defectors. Exiled, or run out, or outcast, they didn’t have anywhere else to go. Cynosure let everyone in but fewer back out. Looking at the Alirian gang, Alverax guessed they were of the latter.
“Hey, pretty boy.” A sparsely dressed girl approached, her dark skin a perfect match to his own. “Looking for some company tonight?”
Alverax ignored her but bumped into a giantess of a woman as he walked. She looked down at him, her muscles rippling as she glared. His feeling of godhood shriveled faster than his manhood. He kept his head down and hoped she wasn’t going to pummel him down. When he peeked up, she smiled…lasciviously.
That terrified him more.
He slinked away as fast as he could. It’s good to know your strengths, and Alverax knew that strength was not one of his. He steered clear of the Masked Guard moving toward him, and edged closer to one of the money changers, a stick-thin man, pale as a full moon. He was collecting bets on the next race and yelling out the odds for each of the necrolytes and their jockey. This was exactly what Alverax needed to know. He had a plan after all.
“Odds for the next race go as follows. White Thorn/Jani/16-1.” He provided the name of each of the six necrolytes, their rider, and the odds that they would win. They’d use these numbers to pay out winners after the race was over. “Sandstalker/Antonin/16-1. Shadow’s Eve/Feather/12-1. Calibra/Brandonian/8-1. Xanaphia/Althea/6-1. And last, the crowd favorite, Spectacle/Sir Kenneth Wheeler/2-1.”
Alverax had heard of Ken, the pompous, bald-headed stump who changed his honorifics so frequently it was hard to keep up. What he hadn’t expected was how much of a favorite the man was to win. There are some people born with such pomposity that an axe would chip trying to break them.
Heralds save me. He was even wearing Felian lightshades at night.
Alverax could see all of the racers below on the dirt track, saddling up on their creatures. The necrolytes were the least docile creatures in the desert—perhaps the world—which is what made the races so exciting. The hard plates that lined their giant, snake-like body worked perfectly as a saddle. The riders used special gloves and grabbed tightly onto the ribbing of the black spikes on their back. Their mouths were harnessed shut, and the ribbed tusks that wrapped down from ear to chin were partially blunted in an attempt to provide at least a small measure of safety. If a rider fell off, and wasn’t impaled in the process, he would most likely asphyxiate while a necrolyte wrapped itself tightly around him.
Every rider that crossed the finish line became a legend. As far as prestige went, it didn’t matter who won. As far as the vast pile of shines went, it was winner take all.
There was one important rule that gave hope to many a young man: no threadweavers. Anyone could ride, so long as they were a registered achromat. That had been Alverax’s first idea, but he realized it was a terrible one. Riders had to be wickedly strong, and he…was not. He’d be dead in seconds. Plus, the last thing he needed was more people looking at him. If they noticed the black tint to his veins, or how truly dark his irises had become, he’d be strapped down to another table.
Alverax glanced around the Pit. It was built like a grand stadium but dug below the surface. Flat rings of sandstone descended gradually down the outsides, stairs leading from level to level, all the way to the bottom. In the center of the Pit was the track, a huge weaving maze of sandy pathways and hills decorated with the bones of failed racers. Or so they claimed. Smooth lines marked the path where the necrolytes moved, their weight compressing deep into the sand.
Screams rang out into the night air. Angry fans losing shines. Happy fans winning some. Drunken thugs in drunken fights. And every other baggy-eyed sinner shouting at their neighbor just to be heard. The commotion and overwhelming nature of it all reminded him, in a small way, of the first time he’d seen threadlight.
As the thought drifted away, he saw a throne perched down near the track surrounded by dozens of women. A small barricade was erected around the area setting it apart from the rest of the chaos. The throne overflowed with clothing, jewelry, and stomach.
Jelium. The unofficial Lord of Cynosure burst into a fit of hideous laughter, his jowls rocked like tidal waves beating against the shore. His wives lazed about him, contempt shadowed by riches, sisters bonded together by a cruelly dealt hand. Each of them was an immaculate beauty. Old, young, dark, light, but each thin as reeds—a sick juxtaposition to their husband. Gelatinous Jelium. His graying hair was slicked back and his teeth were slicked forward in an unfortunate overbite. Nothing about the man oozed supremacy…except his eyes.
Jelium was one of two and, though Cynosure had no true ruler, the two of them owned it all. Jelium Kirikai and Alabella Rune. Amber threadweavers. Even from the distance, Alverax could picture the pale yellow that radiated from Jelium’s irises. There were countless rumors about their power. Some said that they could control others, make them do whatever they wanted.
Alverax had heard another theory, and he’d soon find out the truth.
Chapter 23
“RIDERS READY!”
Alverax watched as a short man with a deep, booming voice called out for the race to begin. Each of the six riders leapt atop their caged necrolytes, settled into their saddles, and gripped tightly onto the ribbed spikes. Watching them mount the creatures gave Alverax anxiety, and an odd respect for them. They may be insane for doing it, but the fact that they didn’t all die in the process was impressive.
He watched Sir Kenneth Wheeler leap onto his necrolyte, Spectacle. It reared its head back and forth against the steel bars on either side, but they held firm. Spectacle was the largest of the pseudo-domesticated necrolytes. His tan scales, covered by charcoal plates all along its back, wrapped around to the length of a mid-size boat. Its head, flanked by huge downward cresting tusks, was topped with additional scales and spikes. Its mouth, mostly harnessed shut, contained six rows of sharp teeth, though only the upper two canines were venomous.
A horn blew, followed by a man yelling, “GATES READY!” Well-armored helpers scrambled toward the gates containing the necrolytes, fumbling over large mechanical bars. Each of them raised a hand to signal their ready state.
“THREE.” The riders settled into their makeshift saddles and clutched savagely onto the spikes.
“TWO.” The crowd counted along.
“ONE.” Latches lifted from the gates.
“GO!”
All six necrolytes burst forward out of their cages and onto the sandy track. Riders dug spiked boot heels into the creatures to steer them—a horribly imprecise method. The beginning was a straight shot until the first curve. The monstrous reptiles slithered down the track with terrifying speed, predators unchained.
As they rounded the first curve, one of the riders ripped free of his saddle and soared out onto the track. He’d dug his heels in too hard and couldn’t handle the torque of the turn. He scrambled about in danger of being trampled.
Alverax shook the distractions out of his mind. This was important. He relaxed himself and let threadlight bathe his vision. He focused his attention on Jelium’s rider. In threadlight, Alverax could see dozens of threads coming off him in different directions, including the thick corethread below him, but he was looking for something different. There. Small tendrils of light latched themselves to Sir Kenneth Wheeler as he rounded the next bend, binding him to the saddle.
Ha!
He was right! The old crustacean was cheating. The rider could take sharper turns and bigger risks with less fear of falling, because Jelium was binding him to his mount. Heralds, but it is clever. And only a threadweaver, focused intently on the rider, would ever know. And even then, who in their right mind would say anything? Never slap a happy hog.
Did he fix every race? That might be too obvious. But maybe the pudgy sandhog didn’t care. Alverax didn’t see Jelium as the kind of man to feign innocence if it’d cost him a shine. No, he was the kind of man who would build a racetrack, make it perfectly acceptable for the owner to place bets on races, and wield the power to fix each one. And then do it with a smile on his fat face.
This also meant that he’d been correct. Jelium’s ability was the compliment to his own. Alverax could break threads, and Jelium could make them. No wonder nobody could kill him. If he could bind a rider to a saddle, he could bind any attacker as well. Unfortunately, that seemed way more useful than his own ability.
An enormous bonfire lit the winding racetrack and the necrolytes as they continued along the switchbacks. They raced up over a large hill and one of the riders was almost bucked off, but he stayed attached by the knife in his boot. One necrolyte lashed out at another, nearly throwing both riders from the force of the impact. The crowd cheered for more.
The necrolytes rounded the final bend, five of the six still battling it out for the victory, with Sir Kenneth slightly leading the pack. Sandstalker, a necrolyte with a fiery red tint to its scales, lunged forward with its tusks. Spectacle slapped its long tail at the enemy’s eyes and launched its rider from his seat, sending him flying toward Jelium’s subdivision. If he kept going, he would crash right into him. Alverax smiled. Mid-flight, the rider’s arc stopped, and he dropped straight down to the ground like he’d fallen from the sky, as if all horizontal momentum had been stripped away.
In threadlight, Alverax saw it for what it was. Dozens of threads of light, like hungry eels, reached up and latched onto the rider’s body. As he hit the ground, he clutched his leg, screaming in pain, bone jutting out from his shin. Medics rushed toward him as the other riders finished the race.
Four out of the six had finished, a fairly standard outcome. Sir Kenneth Wheeler took the victory. Alverax watched as the money changers handed a bag of shines to Jelium.
Supposedly, when Jelium had first arrived in Cynosure, he was thin and handsome and happy. In an attempt to propagate his gift, he’d taken one hundred wives and had even more children. None of them had Amber eyes. Oddly enough, none of them were threadweavers at all. Over the years, he’d created an empire and lost his soul. Alverax had plenty of reasons to hate him, not the least of which was that he’d ordered Alverax’s death for dating Jayla. As if he truly cared about daughter sixty-three.
Minutes passed and Alverax continued watching. Money changers took new bets. Drunkards swung heavy fists. Young fools smoked sailweed trying to impress their friends. And Jelium’s Masked Guard patrolled the stadium. Alverax watched them carefully.
