Dusk (22 page)

“Not far now,” A’Meer said.

At the next corner Kosar caught sight of the Monk’s red cloak flitting out of sight around a bend in the alley. A machine bridged the path, and several people stood high up, whooping and waving and urging them on. Kosar had been to tumbler fights once or twice, and this small crowd reminded him of that. How much more would they be entertained soon?

Around the bend, the Monk was revealed, loping along on feet and fists like a wild dog. Blood spattered every time it landed on its hands, dripping and spraying from ruptured veins. The toxin should have killed it long before now—it would be bleeding inside too, stomach filling with blood, arteries ripping and demanding more and more of its heart—but it seemed as strong as ever. The madness A’Meer had spoken of was serving the Monk well.

They ran through another square, people shying away from the blood-soaked demon, and into another small street.

“Here!” A’Meer called, and the Monk turned at the sound of her voice.

Kosar stopped. He almost turned around and ran, ready to find himself a hiding place from which he would hear the quick battle to come. Because it would surely be over in seconds. The Monk was an image from Kang Kang, every bad dream, every demonic legend ever told in Noreela; blood-soaked, insane, its skin red with rage where it was not already pasted with its own vital fluids. One eye had burst, yet still it saw, sensed, sent its fury their way through a long-fanged mouth. Its teeth dribbed with saliva, diluting the mess on its chin. Its arms waved, feet pounded at the ground, and it did not slow down for an instant.

The Monk still sought its quarry, and no threat from behind would tear it from its pursuit.

A’Meer plucked a small crossbow from a pocket on her shoulder, brought her arm down and fired in one swift movement. The bolt struck home in the thing’s burst eye socket and it screeched, turning and running faster. The Shantasi reloaded without slowing, fired again, reloaded, fired. Each bolt found its mark—one in the back of the Monk’s head, one at the base of its spine—but the impacts seemed only to pin its cloak tight to its body.

“I’ll take it, you get the boy,” she called.

Kosar wanted to argue, but he knew that she was right. She was the warrior here and he was the thief, used to stealing things and concealing them.

They turned another corner and emerged into a large square, the crowds already apparently disturbed by something . . . and then Kosar saw them. On the far side of the square, heading for a wide gateway leading into a park, Rafe was running with an old woman. The witch, Hope. Kosar hoped that she lived up to her name.

The Monk screamed then, too loud to be human, too enraged to be sane. The witch and the boy stopped and turned, wide-eyed and terrified of this frenzied thing closing in on them.

The witch reached into her shoulder bag and pulled something out.

A’Meer flicked out with her slideshock and caught the Monk’s ankle, tripping it and pulling herself down into the dust.

“Take them away from here!” A’Meer shouted at Kosar. She was already on her feet, thrusting her arm at the Monk, slicing its cloak and flesh with the slideshock.

Kosar skirted the fight and went to the witch and Rafe, smiling at the boy, hoping that he could ease his own fear as well. The witch’s eyes flickered down to Kosar’s drawn sword and she raised her hand, ready to throw something at him, something green that squirmed and flexed in her palm with sickly, stagnant life.

“No!” Rafe said. “He’s a friend.”

Kosar reached the boy and hugged him tight, an unconscious gesture.

“Shantasi warrior,” the witch said, and the tattoos on her face twitched in surprise.

The Monk was standing again, pure insane determination overcoming the ragged break in its ankle, and it was trying to make its way to Rafe. Between it and Rafe, however, stood A’Meer. She closed in, lashing out with her sword, ducking, parrying, thrusting again, sinking its tip into the Monk’s exposed neck and spinning on her feet. Blood arced from the wound and splashed a sheebok tethered to a stall nearby, setting the creature screaming as secondhand slayer venom burned into its eyes.

The crowds had pulled back to the edges of the square, fascinated with the fight, some of them calling out and cheering as a blow was landed by either side. They had no loyalties, Kosar realized, and no real understanding of what was happening here. They were simply enjoying the spectacle.

“We have to get away from here!” Kosar said.

“That thing’s come for me,” Rafe said. “But who is she?”

“She’s a friend. Rafe, we have to get you away.”

“Aren’t you going to help your friend?” the witch said.

Kosar glanced at the fighting couple. “No. She told me to take Rafe and find safety. She’s trained in this. She’s taken a Monk before.”

The witch’s strange tattooed face showed mocking disbelief. “She can’t be much of a friend if she lies to you like that. And you can’t be much of a friend leaving her alone to die.”

“The boy’s precious—”

“I know that! That’s why he’s coming with
me
!”

A’Meer shouted behind him and Kosar spun around, afraid of what he would see. The slideshock had wrapped around the Monk’s thigh, and now the Monk was twisting on the spot, blood flying, hauling A’Meer in. She was struggling with the clasps on her wrist and forearm, trying to free herself, when the Monk stopped and lashed out with both swords. She ducked. A trimmed lock of her black air floated on the agitated air. And then she stood quickly, flinging a spiked ball into the Monk’s face. She used the second’s respite to cut the blade of the slideshock and step back out of the Monk’s killing range.

“We have to go now!” Kosar said again. “The Monk called others, and if they converge here
everyone
will die.”

“Then we should slow them down,” the witch said. And cupping her hands around her mouth she shouted: “There are more of these things coming! Quickly, get out of here! Go! Find somewhere safe to hide! They’ll kill you all!” The crowd started to stir, a few people hurrying away, but most remained.

At that moment the Monk landed a sword blow on A’Meer’s arm. She screamed and fell, and a flap of skin fell back along her forearm, exposing the meat beneath.

“There! See?” Hope shouted. “These demons will slaughter every single one of you and eat your children!”

This time the reaction was more extreme. Most of the people poured out of the square, clogging narrow alleys and streets, pushing and falling and fighting as panic took over.

“You’ve sent them straight at the other Monks,” Kosar said, but even as he spoke he realized the cool logic of what she had done.

“It may give us some time,” Hope said. “Your friend needs help.” She nodded past Kosar and he turned to see A’Meer on the ground, kicking out in an effort to put distance between her and the advancing Monk. It had raised both swords and was grinning through shattered teeth, spitting blood and enamel ahead of it. A’Meer rolled away from the shower of gore—with her open wounds, the slayer toxin would be the end of her—and the Monk bore down.

“A’Meer.” He took a faltering step, paused, felt the sword in his hand send a hot pulse through his palm.

“I’ll tell you where we are!” the witch called out. Kosar turned in time to see her and Rafe moving toward the park with a few other people.

“How?” he called.

“I’ll tell you.”
The witch’s voice faded quickly amongst the shouts and screams of the others. Rafe glanced back once before he vanished, and the look on his face convinced Kosar of what he had to do. The boy was scared and bewildered, but he seemed to trust the witch.

A’Meer was in trouble. Her arm was bleeding badly, and as she scurried backwards across the ground the Monk gave her no chance to stand. It thrust down with its swords, A’Meer spun in the dust and dodged them, kicking out at its wrists and snapping one with an audible crack. The Monk screamed and stood back . . . and then, eyeless though it now was, it knew that Rafe had gone. It kicked A’Meer out of its way and advanced on Kosar.

He had to make a choice: step aside and let the Monk pass, pursue Rafe and the witch, make everything A’Meer had gone through pointless; or stand and fight.

The sword knew what it needed.

Breathing hard, tucking the sword under one arm, Kosar pulled down his sleeves and wrapped them around his hands, protecting the open wounds on his fingertips.

“Don’t let it pass!”
A’Meer screamed, standing, drawing more weapons from her belt and a slip around her stomach.

Kosar hefted the sword and parried two blows from the Monk, three, staring all the time at its ravaged face, the exploded mess of its eyes sliding down its cheeks, the gore that ran from its mouth. He tried to remember everything he knew about fighting—all self-taught and used frequently during his earlier years of travel and robbery—and as the Monk brought back both arms to stab at him he ducked inside its fighting circle, lashed out with the sword and felt it grind against bone.

The Monk screeched and sent a splutter of blood at Kosar. He ducked and rolled, keeping a tight grip on his sword, twisting it as it slipped out of the Red Monk.

“Hey, you’re turning me on,” A’Meer said weakly, and then she darted at the Monk’s back, driving in a barbed fork.

The square was all but empty now, save for a few diehard fight fans who had weighed the risks and decided to remain. They kept to the edges, moving around so that they could get a better view of proceedings, still cheering each time a blow was landed . . . but now Kosar felt their allegiance polarize. As the Monk walked toward the park Kosar ran to its left side, ducked a backward sweep of its sword and hacked at its leg once, twice, three times. With each blow a cheer rose from the few spectators. Kosar smiled, hacked again.

The Monk fell toward him, its slashed cloak falling open to reveal sagging breasts. He backed away, losing his sword where it had become lodged in the thing’s thigh bone, and leapt out of the way as it hit the dirt. It growled, crawled after him, and as a bloody hand closed around his boot Kosar knew that it had fallen on purpose.

“A’Meer!” he shouted.

She came at them, right hand and forearm tucked into her shirt to shelter the bleeding wound from the Monk’s blood. She hefted a small axe in her left hand, leapt at the last moment and buried it in the Monk’s wrist.

Kosar kept crawling, the Monk’s severed hand still clasped tightly around his boot.

The crowd cheered again.

A’Meer went at the Monk with the axe, aiming for its other hand as it waved its sword at her. It parried her first few blows, then slid quickly across the ground and surprised her with a stab to the ankle. She grunted and stumbled away, dropping the axe, slipping to her knees as blood flowered over the lip of her boot.

The observers fell silent.

“Hey!” Kosar was running to A’Meer, kicking the still-flexing hand from his foot, and he glanced up. A man stood in the corner of the square, waving his hands. “Hey! There’s a tumbler pit this way!”

“Tumbler,” A’Meer moaned as Kosar reached her.

“Are you all right?”

She looked up at him, and he could see veins standing out on her temples, edging their cruel fingers under her scalp. Her eyes were already bloodshot. “No,” she said.

“Oh Mage shit, A’Meer!”

“One chance,” she said. “I’ll keep it here, fend it off. You go for the tumbler. Follow the idiot who shouted, make him show you.”

“What about you, what about—”

“One death at a time, Kosar. I’ll make sure the Monk doesn’t get me. We’ll worry about what’s in my blood later.”

The Monk had gained its feet and was walking once again toward the gated entrance to the park. There were a thousand places to hide in there, but by now Kosar was sure the witch and Rafe would have reached its far side. The Monk screeched again, and from nearby something answered.

“They’re close!”

“We don’t have much time, Kosar. Go!”

He started toward the corner of the square, then glanced back at A’Meer. She was struggling to her feet. He ran back past her, ducked under the Monk’s sword and rescued his own blade from its leg, thrusting hard and sticking it in between the thing’s ribs. He pushed, toppling the Monk onto its front, and then ran. He mustered a smile for A’Meer as he passed her, and she smiled back.
We’re both going to die,
he thought.

The man who had shouted about the tumbler headed off before Kosar could reach him, trotting along a street, turning left, right, bringing them quickly to a high-fenced compound, a fighting ring for a tumbler. Kosar had been to a contest once or twice but it had not entertained him. However willing the combatants, the sight of them impaled on the giant rolling thing, the thorns and barbs taking out their foolish eyes and hearts, had done nothing for him.

You red freak,
he thought.
Escape from this!

“Where’s the gate?” he asked.

“Here!” The man pointed along the fence, and Kosar saw the look on his face for the first time. He was more than excited; he was turned on.

“How do I aim this thing?”

“You can’t. Once it’s out there’s little you can do but run.”

“Great.”

Kosar shook his hands free of the stretched sleeves. He drew his knife and hacked at the gate’s wooden hinges, breaking one, hearing the scream of the Red Monk from the square behind him, seeing movement as the tumbler shifted slightly in its bed of moss. It was taller than him, though certainly not the biggest he had ever seen; they were twice this size on the foothills of Kang Kang. It wore evidence of many kills. Bones were hugged to its hide by barbed hooks, some of them still retaining fleshy scraps, the tatters of clothes, jewelry. As Kosar forced the second hinge the tumbler flexed, shifted and then rolled with startling speed at the gate. The gate smashed open and he ducked behind it, gasping as it swung wide and pinned him against the fence. The tumbler rolled straight down the street, bouncing from wall to wall, the sound almost musical; the rustle of vegetation on stone, bones on dust, barbs scraping walls and offering a rhythm to its escape.