Blood and Bone (5 page)

Saeng sat back, frowning even more than usual. ‘What is it?’

‘An army comes, littlest. Our lords the Thaumaturgs march to war and they come impressing into service everyone they find.’

Saeng popped the ball of rice into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. ‘Well, what is that to us?
We’ve
already paid.’

Her mother shook her head. ‘I don’t think that will count any longer. And—’ but she stopped herself.

‘And what?’

‘Saeng,’ her mother began again, reaching out a hand, ‘the old faith is explicit! In times of war the priestess must be in the temple …’

‘
Please
, Mother … don’t go on about that.’

Her mother clasped her hands, shocked. ‘Do not blaspheme! Your
great-grandmother
was unswerving in this – you must seek out the Great Temple.’

Saeng could hardly find the words. ‘Mother … the old faith is long dead. No one even knows where the temples are!’ She laughed a touch nervously. ‘Really – you’re being … silly.’

But her mother’s face eased into her usual disappointment and she shook her head. Clenching her lips, Saeng looked away and finished her meal.

That night she couldn’t sleep. The Nak-ta called to her louder than they had in many years. No matter which way she tossed or turned she couldn’t shut them out. And even more distantly, when she concentrated, she thought she could hear the crash of great shapes lumbering ever closer through the jungle.

Then a voice called even louder than the wind rustling the palm leaves and shaking the rattan. Wordless it was; no more than a moan that sounded like someone gagged or wounded. Never before had she heard such a thing. And the voice – a man’s. One of the villagers? Occasionally some fool would stagger drunk or sick off the paths only to be taken. If she got to them soon enough she would try to intercede, but when the shades had claimed their victim it was almost impossible to retrieve him. Only once had she exerted the extra, and very perilous, effort necessary – and that had been for a child. She threw on her wrap and padded out past their cleared garden patch into the wall of trees that was the verge of the trackless jungle that stretched from one coast to the other of her land, Jacuruku.

Once within the darkness between the tall trunks she paused, listening and sensing. She reached out, extending her awareness in an ever-broadening circle. She felt the footfall of the many night creatures surrounding the village, from a small family group of snuffling peccary to the nosing of a tiny shrew. Pushing even further she sensed the hot watchful presence of a night-hunting cat high in its perch, and on the far side of the circle of huts a troop of monkeys scavenged a meal – as far from the cat as possible.

Strange. Was there no one? Usually those who left the paths at night crashed blindly about as hard to miss as an elephant. So much for the flesh. What of the discarnate? Perhaps—

A footfall sounded. Close. Heavy. Far too heavy to be that of any villager. Then another. And a shape emerged from the deeper darkness, a monstrously huge figure, tall and broad. It crossed an errant beam of the green-tinged moonlight as it approached and
Saeng’s
breath caught as she recognized one of the Thaumaturg’s giant armoured soldiers. The yakshaka.

So – they were here already
.

She calmed herself and knelt, head bowed, awaiting the arrival of its master, who could not be too distant. These indestructible giants guarded the Thaumaturgs and were the backbone of their armies.
So it is true. They march to the eastern highlands
. An advance upon the true source of the wilderness’s lurking dangers: the vast primeval tracks of the Demon-Queen’s demesnes. The jungle of Himatan, half of this land, half of the spirit realm.

Yet I sense no others nearby
.

A strange grating noise raised her attention to the yakshaka. Wary, she peeped up. It was doing something at its neck with its heavy armoured hands. Perhaps adjusting the great full helm. The mosaic of inlaid stones that covered its armour glittered as it moved. To Saeng’s horror the helm lifted off revealing a head beneath, the scalp shaved and horribly scarred. Dark eyes – human eyes – blinked, wincing even at this unaccustomed dim light, then peered down at her with a strange gentle intimacy.

She stared, terrified, and irrationally all she could think was:
They’ll blame me for breaking it!

Then the mouth moved soundlessly, forming a word. A word she couldn’t believe such a creature would know. Her name, Saeng.

And her flesh prickled in shocked recognition. She knew that face, disfigured though it might be.

She answered, hardly daring to breathe: ‘Hanu …’

The yakshaka nodded, its mangled lips rising in a travesty of a smile.

She came close and pressed a hand to its chest, then recoiled at the cold rigidity of the armour. ‘What happened? Why are you here? What’s going on? Oh, dear Hanu –
what’s happened to you?
’

The smile fell from her brother’s lips and his gaze fell. Taking a deep breath he touched a finger to his lips then opened his mouth. Puzzled, Saeng looked, then felt the strength leave her knees and darkness take her.

His tongue had been sliced away.

She came to, finding herself propped up against a tree. Hanu stood over her, his gaze on the surrounding woods. She peered up at him for a time, enjoying the old familiarity of his presence.

Guarding me still. But you should not be here. What’s going on?

‘Hanu,’ she whispered, ‘why are you here?’

He turned, peering down. With one gauntleted hand he made a shape and Saeng recognized it as one of their old hand-language signs, part of a system they had invented for silent communication.

‘
Promise
.’

‘Promise? Whatever do you mean, promise? Your promise to protect me?
That?
’

‘
Coming
,’ he signed.

‘Coming? So – they
are
coming.’ She stood, brushed the damp rotting humus from herself. ‘Well … what’s that to me?’

‘
Danger
.’

‘Danger? Why? Who am I—’ And she understood. The Thaumaturgs’ long hatred of their neighbour extended to denouncing and drowning any considered under
her
influence. No doubt she would be killed out of hand as a suspected witch and servant of the Demon-Queen. ‘So you—’ She cut herself off again, staring anew. ‘All the lost gods … you’ve run off … You deserted to warn me!’

‘
Quiet
.’

‘You great fool!’ she yelled. ‘How does this help? Now it’s
your
head they’ll want!’

He winced, signing again, ‘
Quiet
.’

‘Well this is just wonderful. Now we’re
both
fugitives.’

‘
Yes
.’

‘Perfect.’ She set her fists on her hips, eyeing him. She watched while he began refitting his helm. ‘Fine … we’ll need food. I’ll go find what I can.’

‘
Hurry
.’

‘Yes, yes.’ She padded back to the hut. Here she set to filling a sack with rice and collected all the preserved fish and vegetables she could find. Through it all her mother lay breathing wetly in her cot. For a moment Saeng considered waking her to say goodbye, but only for a moment. She’d make too much of a fuss.

Well … I yearned for this moment for so long and now that it’s here I don’t want it. I’m finally getting out of here but this is surely not the way I dreamed of it
.

She threw together a bag of the sturdiest clothes she could find, plus sandals and bedding. From outside the hiss of a light rain brushed against the grass walls.
Wonderful. And in the rainy season, too
.

She collected an umbrella of thin wood and set off into the mist.

Hanu joined her in the dark. He pointed then signed a question, indicating obviously enough, ‘
Which way?
’

Under the umbrella, Saeng clutched her bag to herself and bit her lip.
Yes, which way?
Steeling herself, she extended her awareness
outwards
farther than she ever had dared before. It expanded to encompass the village, its surrounding garden plots, and the outlying fields and further fallow wildlands that constituted their outlying holdings. It swept onward over neighbouring villages’ wilds and fields, then the modest hamlets themselves. Like thinning ripples its furthest leading edge now brushed up against something far to the west – a sizzling unfamiliar power that repelled her mild questing like a thick wall of dressed stone.

The army of the Thaumaturgs. And not just passing by in their litters or carts on their mysterious errands. Marching with defences raised and powers unfurled
.

‘North, I think. We can let them pass by, then return.’

Hanu simply peered down at her, signing nothing. She felt his mute scepticism. Irritated, she scanned the dense fronds and hanging vines while the light rain pattered down around them as the faintest hint of the downpours to come. She waved him to follow. ‘This way.’

* * *

Murken Warrow, known in Untan black-market circles as ‘Murk’, narrowed his already unusually thin eyes on the coast of desert dunes and the forest of strange pillar-like stone markers, then shifted that dubious gaze to his partner Hint, known as ‘Sour’. Together, the duo had achieved a level of notoriety unhealthy in their line of work. They had even come to be pointed out in the streets of Unta as … well, as Murk and Sour. By then it was long past a prudent time to leave the city – as their arrest proved.

‘I don’t like it,’ Sour said.

Hands stuffed into the pockets of his vest, Murk rolled his eyes to the overcast sky and let out a great sigh of long-suffering and annoyance. ‘Why am I not surprised?’

‘Got a bad feeling ’bout this contract.’

‘No kidding.’

‘Gonna end in tears.’

‘As always,’ Murk answered beneath his breath as he squinted to the stern deck where the sponsor of their current contract was speaking with the ship’s captain.

‘Miss Nibs is gonna be the death of us,’ Sour continued, aware of his partner’s shift in attention.

‘Only if you keep makin’ passes at her.’

‘It’s those legs o’ hers. They just go on forever.’

Murk grunted his agreement at that. The woman wore the
most
amazing outfits: tall leather boots as high as her knees, tight trousers, a shape-hugging leather hauberk over a lacy white silk shirt. She looked like someone’s fever dream out of a bordello. But the sword strapped to her belt was well worn, and early in the voyage a single punch from her had floored one of the mercenaries for some suggestive remark, real or imagined.

Most oddly, she insisted on the name Spite.

Murk smiled now in remembrance of Sour’s remark when she’d given that name. Sour had screwed up his frog eyes and asked, “Would that be Miss or Mrs Spite?” Sometimes the squirrelly guy really did crack him up.

Orders sounded and the crew began readying the launch and unstowing cargo. ‘Something tells me we’re gonna earn our pay on this one,’ Sour said. Murk let a breath hiss between clenched lips. ‘Gonna be hairy.’

‘
Enough!
Would you just – keep it to yourself for a change?’

Sour pulled at the tiny tuft of a beard he kept on his chin, frowned while he eyed the coast. ‘Might not make it out.’

Murk clenched the railing and hung his head in defeat.

The mercenaries went first to secure the landing. They were a scruffy lot Spite said she picked up on the southern coast of Genabackis. Pirate territory, that. None of them admitted to taking imperial coin. But he could tell they had served their time – though he had yet to call any of them on it, as the same could be said for him and Sour. Their leader, Yusen he gave as his name, smelled especially of officer material. Had that demeanour: that old familiar
you’re an idiot
look he gave them whenever they had anything to say.

Reminded him of their days as imperial mage cadre.

Not much later the scouts returned to the shore to sign the all-clear and the unloading of equipment began.

They watched the ship’s crew and the mercenaries busy unstowing the crates and sacks, lowering them to the launch, and arranging them in the bobbing craft.

Some time into the process Murk became aware of the tall slim figure of their employer, Spite, at his side, her arms crossed and her eyes, an amazing rich golden hazel, on them. He nudged Sour and they touched their brows. ‘Ma’am.’

‘Things would go much quicker if everyone lent a hand.’

‘Just keepin’ an eye out for trouble,’ Sour volunteered.

One shapely eyebrow arched. ‘Really? When I hired you – or should I say rescued you? – from certain arrest and imprisonment in
Unta
, I was under the impression that you were
not
a mage of Ruse. Are you a mage of Ruse?’

Sour lowered his confused gaze and kicked at the decking. ‘No, ma’am.’

‘Then tell me – how could you be any help here at sea should there be any … trouble?’

The squat mage raised his head, his mouth open to speak, paused, frowned as he reconsidered, and scratched his scalp instead.