No Return (4 page)

Few chose, like Vedas, to retain the smooth, unadorned texture of the cloth, and fewer still masked their features completely.

All skin tones were represented, for Vedas’s order culled recruits from each of Golna’s major ethnic neighborhoods.
Diversity is a strength
, Abse claimed, and so allowed the brothers and sisters a great deal of freedom. Plaited and matted hair grew from faces and sprouted from helmets. Tattoos curled around eyes. Plugs of bone pierced lips and brows.

The men and women of the Thirteenth Order of Black Suits had little in common beyond the color of their suits, the hardness of their bodies, and the horns on their hooded heads. They had become brothers and sisters through physical pain. They prayed and fought for the downfall of Adrash together, proudly displaying the color of opposition.

More than half their number preferred weapons other than the lo. These dropped their staffs upon entering the square and lifted hammers from their shoulders, unsheathed swords, twirled flails, and readied razored shields. The four who had formed weapons out of their suit material eschewed handheld weapons altogether.

The Black Suits stopped in the center of the square, eyes locked on something Vedas could not yet see. Abse, a thin, diminutive figure holding two broadswords half as long as his body, took a step forward from the group and stamped his foot, as if anchoring himself to the spot.

A howl sounded, a ragged-edged bellow that offended Vedas’s ears and caused the recruits to mill uneasily at his back. He recognized the sound and cursed inwardly.

A second after announcing itself, the hellhound catapulted into the square, skidding a mere body length from Abse’s feet. A crest of purple fur bristled along its broad back. Smoke rose from its drooling mouth. It stood at the shoulder taller than the abbey master.

Abse neither flinched nor gave ground. Bringing a hellhound was a serious and dangerous breach of etiquette, only technically allowed because Vedas’s order had been allowed to choose the location. The abbey master would not allow this as a distraction. His eyes never left the advancing line of White Suits that followed the dog.

The Thirteenth had never fought this order, the so-called Soldiers of the Appropriate Desire, but Vedas had done his research. He had briefed every brother and sister of the Thirteenth, assuring their preparedness as best he could. Superficially, the Soldiers were a similarly outfitted, non-mage order, legally registered within the city. They had not gone south of the law for three years. Abse and Vedas had predicted a clean battle.

The hellhound said otherwise—as did the two white-suited women at point, the tops of whose staffs glowed with green magefire.

Their numbers, at least, were correct. Including the hellhound, Vedas counted twenty Soldiers, accoutered in a similar if more conservative manner than his own brothers and sisters. They had only gathered eleven new recruits, he noted in relief, and had not encouraged the children to wait in hiding before the attack. They followed at the order’s back, peering through the mass of white-suited figures, trying to locate their rivals and failing.

Small blessings were never discouraged.

Best not to waste it
, Vedas reasoned. A small risk might be taken to assure his recruits.

He spoke softly to them without turning his head.

“You heard it. They’ve brought a hellhound. Doubtless some of you’ve seen them at the carnival. They are dangerous, yes, but this one can’t touch you. The White Suits don’t have the authority to allow that.”

This was technically true, of course, but it was not the whole truth. Though intelligent enough to understand instructions, hybrid dogs did not always follow the rules of the battle. Sometimes the primal urge to hunt could not be denied. The chances of an attack were slight, but it was a chance nonetheless.

There is always risk
, Abse was fond of saying.

“You needn’t be afraid,” Vedas continued. “No one can touch you but other recruits. Keep your eyes on your enemy. Close out everything else.”

No one answered. Vedas frowned within his mask. Any minute now. He focused on a White Suit, a heavily built man standing well over seven feet. A warhammer with a head that must have weighed thirty pounds rested on his shoulder. A thick chain at the end of its handle led to a viciously pronged grapple, which hung from the giant’s right hand.

Vedas noted the giant’s sinuous midsection, calculating how much speed it could generate. He guessed the man would create a vacuum around himself. No one would want to get in close and risk having their head torn off. Nonetheless, the man would have weaknesses. He would be slow to recover from swinging those huge weapons.

You’re mine
, Vedas thought. He held up his hand, two fingers raised.

Outside, Abse whistled, and as one the two groups leapt forward. Vedas caught a brief glimpse of the abbey master’s small frame ducking under the hellhound’s body, broadswords thrust toward its belly, and then lost sight of him amid the press of bodies. He wished Abse luck. A smart move, taking out the beast early.

Black and white mixed. The White Suits’ new recruits backed away from the roiling crowd.

Vedas lowered one finger.

Magefire arced over the brawling bodies, found its target. A scream went up. Vedas recognized the voice of a sister and shut it out. He set his knuckles against the stockroom door.

The White Suits’ new recruits clustered together, casting confused looks about.

Vedas made a fist, pushed the door open, and shouldered the frame aside.

Two hundred and fifty pounds of tempered muscle charged up the stairs, followed at the heels by sixteen scared children. They screamed as they flowed forth, as if the sound would drown out their fear.

‡

Three months after Vedas’s twenty-second birthday, an opponent’s clumsy sword stroke had disemboweled a pair of his recruits. A sister and brother, perhaps eleven and thirteen years old. Their wounds, so unexpected and gruesome, stopped the battle in its tracks.

Vedas knelt by the children. The boy was already dead, the stroke having severed his spinal cord. His sister did not so much as twitch. She lay in the street as if she had decided to take a rest. Only her eyes moved, searching the sky.

Suddenly, she shuddered and tried to lift her head.

He clamped a hand around her jaw, holding her in place.

“Hurts,” she said. “What—?”

Vedas looked up, instinctually searching the crowd for Abse. “Shh,” he said without looking down. The smell struck him, and he winced. “You’ll be fine.”

“I want—” The girl swatted weakly at the arm holding her head immobile.

“Mommy. My legs hurt. Zeb.”

At once, Vedas remembered her name. Sara Jol. Zeb was her brother. Had been her brother.

He still could not meet the girl’s stare. Abse was nowhere to be seen. “Don’t worry,” Vedas said. “It’ll just be a second.”

The girl spoke no more. She inhaled three quick, shallow breaths and died. After dinner, Abse and Vedas conferred in the library to discuss the incident.

A waxpaper packet lay on the table between them. The death wage, an ounce of bonedust for the children’s parents: nearly half a year’s standard pay. “They came to Golna from the badlands of southern Casta a year ago,” Abse said. “They knew their children had been recruited and approved. We have no reason to expect recriminations. The man who killed them has reason to worry, of course. Perhaps his order does, as well. It was reckless,

allowing the man to fight.”

“We should have recognized the danger he posed.”

“Ridiculous. We were at war, Vedas.”

Vedas’s hand closed around the waxpaper packet. “I will take it to the parents.”

Abse frowned. “Very well, though it is not your responsibility.”

“Whose responsibility is it?”

The abbey master opened his hands, palms up. “What are you looking for, Vedas? Let us be honest with one another. You want someone to blame other than yourself. You want someone to suffer as you suffer, and so you try to shame the order by implying that we have not taken responsibility. In your guilt you cannot see that it is not your fault when a recruit dies—not your fault, or mine. The children are warriors, just as you and I are warriors.

The children are weapons for the greater glory of man, just as you and I are weapons for the same cause. You need not seek someone to blame, for there is no one to blame.”

Vedas closed his eyes and breathed deep into his stomach, struggling to contain the rage the abbey master’s words roused within him. Since taking over as Head of Recruits at the age of seventeen, he had heard a variation on the speech three times. He could see the reason in it, but reason did not erase guilt—a fact the abbey master did not seem to understand. “I could have done more.”

Abse rose, and still stood only a little taller than the sitting Vedas. “How? By standing behind them, by moving their arms and legs?” A rare expression of annoyance crossed the abbey master’s face. “You will not begin to think that way. A good leader readies as best he can, knowing that no amount of preparedness can assure the life of every man in his command. In time you will embrace this fact. In time, you will not cling so tightly to your pain. For now, however, you must simply move forward.”

‡

The giant’s grapple caught the end of Vedas’s staff and ripped it from his hands. The rounded edge of one prong grazed his temple, spinning him to the ground. He shook the stars from his eyes and rolled to the left to avoid the swiftly descending warhammer, which landed, shattering pavement less than an inch from his leg. He rose into a crouch and immediately leaned back, planting a hand on the ground to steady himself as the man swung his grapple at Vedas’s face a second time. He felt the compacted air of its wake as a soft slap.

The giant grunted, obviously surprised that he had not connected. Offbalance, he twisted to bring his weapons back around. Before he could do so, Vedas shifted his weight forward, sweeping his right foot into the man’s left ankle. Though it felt like striking a concrete pillar, the joint broke with a loud snap. The man did not cry out, and managed to twist so that he fell on his back. The ground shuddered.

Vedas saw the counterattack coming. Admiring the White Suit’s persistence, he rolled to the right just as the warhammer fell, slamming into the street where he had just been. Momentum carried him onto his feet as the grapple arced over the man’s prone body. From the ground it was a clumsy throw, and Vedas caught it easily.

The man reacted quickly, however, jerking the chain back, but Vedas was already moving in this direction. He stamped his left heel into the man’s left inner elbow, deadening the arm holding the hammer and simultaneously using it as a springboard.

He calculated in the second before his right foot landed on the giant’s face. He noted the thick fabric armor covering the bridge of the man’s nose and reconsidered his attack, angling his foot for the neck rather than the head.

Cartilage crunched satisfyingly under his sole. The giant’s roar became a gurgle and then a wheeze as Vedas landed in a crouch beside his head.

Vedas dropped the grapple and rolled clear before the giant could attack again—but he knew even before completing his turn that the man was finished, dead or in great need of medical assistance. Vaguely, Vedas hoped the battle would end soon so the man could get the help he needed. Death was an unfortunate fact of sectarian battling, best for the orders if kept to a minimum.

One must always remember
, Abse often reminded the brothers and sisters
, we are tolerated only as long as we do not draw too much attention to ourselves
.

Besides, Vedas was not without compassion. He hoped the giant’s faith in Adrash lessened his pain. The sentiment conflicted with the views of his order, but this troubled Vedas not at all. He had risen above such trivialities. His faith was unassailable.

Vedas stood at the center of a battle still going strong. Everyone had either paired off against an opponent or moved to assist a weaker brother or sister. Several Black Suits had fallen, but so had a handful of White Suits. Through the thick of fighters, Vedas saw Abse at the gathering’s edge, engaging one of the mages. The other lay at his feet, face disfigured by burns. The staff he had taken from her spun in his hands and struck, spitting magefire.

On the opposite side of the square, Vedas spotted the recruits. He could hardly tell his own from the opponents’, and started to jog in their direction.

Howling, the blurred form of the hellhound came at him as he rounded a fierce melee. Vedas had only half turned when its shoulder slammed into his right hip and lifted him into the air. He spun three times before hitting the ground face first. His limbs whipped into the ground and his suit stiffened to minimize the impacts, but he felt them all the same.

Apparently, Abse had not been successful in taking the hellhound down. The beast had not uttered a sound since the beginning of the battle, and Vedas foolishly assumed it had been incapacitated. Banishing the embarrassment from his mind, he rose.

The dog was headed straight for the recruits.

Vedas ran, knowing he would never get there in time to stop the animal if it intended violence.

What else could it be intending?
he asked himself.

He was still twenty paces from the recruits when the hellhound closed its jaws around the girl’s head. She disappeared under the creature’s body, but not before Vedas saw the black sash tied around her left arm.

‡

Abse called Vedas to his chambers after the post-fight toilet. The two sat, separated by a small lacquered table. They ate cold dumplings and mutton and drank hot fahl tea, the reason for the meeting hanging unspoken between them as they chewed and sipped. The abbey master had never been one to rush matters, even when both parties knew the outcome.

Vedas’s hood was gathered at his neck and he had made his generous, wellformed features blank. The smell of vomit and blood had not left his nose. The sequence of Julit Umeda’s death replayed itself before his eyes. From experience, he knew that in time the memory would fade. It would never disappear completely.