The Shadow’s Curse (5 page)

At first, she was confused. But then it became obvious. Although she was a prisoner, she was also being kept in Khareh’s inner circle; they thought she might be looking for a way to turn Khareh against them. She was a foreigner too – they could tell that by her accent, her mode of dress and the very colour of her skin. No, these soldiers would not talk to her. She was alone.

Her mouth set in a firm line, Wadi resigned herself to silence.

What if Wadi doesn’t want to be rescued?

Vlad’s words echoed in his thoughts, making him shudder.

‘You don’t mean that,’ Raim had replied. Of
course
Wadi would want to be rescued. She wouldn’t want to spend any more time than was necessary with Khareh.

‘I heard them talking about her, when they thought that I had passed out from the pain. They’re not torturing her. They want her pass-stone.’

‘They might have just been saying that to confuse you.’ Raim folded his arms across his chest.

Vlad shook his head. ‘No. She can read and write too, can’t she? Khareh was using her to write orders to other warlords, and she obeyed. She is not in any danger. They need her.’

‘
I
need her,’ said Raim. ‘Just because they’re not torturing her, doesn’t mean she should be kept there against her will.’

Vlad’s hawk-like stare softened for a moment. He turned to look at Loni, then at the other men of the Cheren who were around. A gentle steppes wind swept through the wiry strands of hair on Vlad’s head; he closed his eyes and let the breeze caress his tired features. He looked at peace. ‘You were right to wait here,’ Vlad said. ‘This place is perfect for an ambush. You know the steppes well, and the wind would have brought with it the smells and noise of the wagon long before the guards could spot you in the long grass. They didn’t stand a chance.’ He opened his eyes slowly and settled his gaze on Raim. ‘But to ambush Khareh’s camp you have to sneak past the legions of tribeswarriors pledged to him. Even if you succeed there, you would need to get past his personal guard, made up of the very same elite Yun soldiers you know all too well. And if you defeat them, Khareh will call up his shadow-army, and they will be led by
your own spirit
. And then there is the promise that prevents you from hurting Khareh – but he would have no such problem killing you. No, Raim. There is no way for you to do this.’

Raim hung his head. ‘I can’t give up,’ he said, although the words came out as barely a whisper.

Vlad stepped forwards and put a hand on Raim’s shoulder. ‘You’re not giving up. You have to give yourself a chance, for Wadi’s sake. You’ll find a way to get her back. But not with this.’ He reached down and grabbed Raim’s wrist, then shook it in his face, so all he could see was the hideous scar.

‘He’s right,’ said Draikh. ‘I hate to say it, but he is. When we’re stronger, we’ll get her back.’

‘Before anything else.’

‘Before anything else,’ Draikh repeated.

And so, even though it went against every fibre in his being, Raim had agreed.

That had been three days ago, when Vlad, Loni and the rest of the ambush crew had returned to the Cheren. Raim was left alone, apart from Draikh and Oyu, as his path took him in a different direction: north, toward the Amarapura mountains.

Raim shivered in his thin shirt, the night air having taken on an increased chill as he drew closer to his destination. He took in a sharp breath, the cold air filling his chest giving a sharp jolt to his senses.

He needed it. His mind felt like it was wrapped in sheep’s wool. Vlad had outlined the route in the dirt, a winding trek through the mountains that would take him further north than he had ever been. Vlad had made it clear that if he – a branded oathbreaker – had any chance of being allowed to speak to a Baril, he had to find the one person there who might listen to him: his brother, Tarik.

Raim dropped the pack he’d been carrying to the ground and rooted around in the top, pulling out a sheepskin cloak to ward off the chill. He hadn’t prepared for this journey, and though he’d borrowed the warmest clothes the others could spare, he worried it wouldn’t be enough. From afar, he could see smoke rising from near the base of the mountains. With a pang, he realized he was looking at the very village his tribe had stayed in before his brother’s wedding. He felt like he’d travelled all the way to Lazar and back, only to come full circle.

Raim had to avoid the village, one of the few perm anent settlements on the steppes. If he was spotted and his scar revealed to the villagers, they would drive him away. Or worse, they would kill him on the spot. He adjusted the angle of his path away from the village, but not so far that he lost sight of it completely. At least if he could see the dwellings, then the Baril couldn’t be too far away.

The cloak was enough for now, and Raim relaxed into the warmth. He slung the pack back over his shoulder, and started walking once again.

‘Why do they live in the mountains? Surely there are better places,’ said Draikh. ‘It’s already cold enough on the steppes in winter.’

Raim rolled his eyes. ‘You don’t feel the cold.’

‘True, but I remember it.’ The spirit shivered for effect, rubbing his hands on his shoulders.

‘The remoteness of our location is our pride.’ Raim imitated Vlad’s solemn voice and expression, lowering his voice while stretching his neck up high and looking down his nose.

‘Like the Chauk,’ said Draikh. ‘Cut from the same skin, those two clans.’

Raim laughed, dropping the act. ‘Whatever you do, don’t say that to their faces.’

‘Might do them some good to hear it.’ Draikh swooped down low so he was level with Raim. When they walked like this, Raim found it difficult not to think it was Khareh next to him. Just the two of them out exploring, like old times. Despite himself, he missed his friend.
That friend is gone
, he reminded himself, and he clenched his fists at his side.

‘How do you think you will find your brother?’ Draikh said, glancing sidelong at him. Draikh would know what he was thinking.

‘I’m not sure.’ He shrugged. ‘Vlad said he might not be in the main temple as he’s probably still a novice.’

‘How do you think he will take seeing you again?’

Raim bit his lip, and continued to plod one foot in front of the other, staring down at the laces of his boots.

‘Come on,’ said Draikh. ‘You can’t avoid it for ever. You’ll be seeing him soon enough.’

Raim shrugged, but his heart beat wildly. When he’d last seen Tarik’s back retreating into the cave, he had thought that would be the last time they would ever meet. Under any other circumstances, it would have been. Tarik had shed his previous life as Loni’s grandson, as brother to Raim and Dharma, and adopted a new clan: the Baril. That was the Darhanian way, just as Raim would never have expected to see Dharma and Loni again once he had joined his chosen clan. The Yun.

The Baril, and the Yun. One, masters of words, the other, masters of swords. Tarik and Raim had never been close, certainly not as close as Raim and Dharma, but they had one thing in common, and that was the desire to join the most elite clan of their chosen fields. And while Tarik had achieved his goal, Raim had failed at the first hurdle.

Tarik might enjoy that. Raim had always been the stronger one, the one who naturally excelled at games: racing horses across the steppes, shooting arrows and spears through narrow targets, wrestling. Tarik was the one often left eating dirt, having fallen from his horse or been shoved to the ground.

‘He never liked asking for help,’ Raim remembered. ‘He thought it was beneath his intellect.’

‘Then maybe he won’t be surprised you’re asking him for help.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Because your intellect is nothing to be proud of.’

Raim swatted the air in front of Draikh, sending him wheeling away in a fit of laughter. It was only then that Raim looked back up at the mountain range and stopped in his tracks. For so long it had loomed like a shadow on the horizon. Now it was right in front of him, so immense his mind could barely take it in. He didn’t remember feeling so overwhelmed when he’d been here last – but those were different circumstances. This time, he was going to conquer the mountains, not just sit at their base.

He took a few deep breaths, then carried on walking.

A violent thud sounded from nearby. He spun on his heel, and immediately dropped into a crouch, using the long grass as shelter. White plumes of an arrow shaft protruded from the ground a few feet from where he had been standing.

Then he looked in the direction of the shooter.

And there, quivering with fear, his hand releasing the bow and letting it fall to the ground, was Tarik. His brother.

The atmosphere changed as they drew close to the limits of the army camp. Gone were the legions of hardened men, the trained warriors, tending to their weapons or their armour. Instead, they moved through the tents housing the newest tribes to join Khareh’s campaign. Unrest was evident in the wary glances they shot Khareh’s entourage. Clearly not all of them were comfortable with their new ruler. But where the army went, they followed.

Still, Wadi’s attention was drawn to something far stranger. There was a gulf, a stretch of emptiness two yurts wide, separating these tribes and another group of tents. Everywhere else, tribes mixed and intertwined, many tributaries merging into Khareh’s great river of war.

But beyond this particular tributary, there was an island. She looked over at the yurts on the other side of the divide, and felt unease settle deep into her bones. The army camp was hardly the epitome of neatness and cleanliness, but the yurts over there displayed a shabbiness that Wadi found eerily familiar.

It reminded her of Lazar.

Most ordinary Darhanians took great care in their homes, but these ones were badly patched together and poorly maintained. One even had a rip in it big enough to let in a significant amount of water when it rained. The bands of cloth that held the yurts together were frayed and splitting. It was as if the inhabitants took a strange kind of pride in the degradation of their homes.

In Lazar, they had purposefully chipped away at any object of beauty – their carvings, statues, their homes – because they did not feel worthy of creating anything of value. The hatred against oathbreakers was ingrained too deep.

She suddenly realised where they were. This was a moving city of Lazar: the tent city of oathbreakers: the Camp of Shadows.

Wadi pulled up just short of walking into Khareh’s back. She shuddered at how close she had come to touching him. They had stopped in a small clearing, in between the mysterious camp and the main army.

‘Bring forth the captives!’ bellowed Garus.

A group of four men and two women, their wrists tied by a long piece of rope, shuffled forwards. Wadi gasped. Hovering around each one of their hunched figures was a dark, swirling shadow. She could feel the wave of revulsion flow over her as they approached. Oathbreakers.

Their heads hung low, their eyes cast down to the ground. Khareh drew himself up to his fullest height, observing the prisoners.

‘Name yourselves to the Khan,’ said Garus.

None dared to speak until Garus tugged on the rope, sending them tumbling forwards. The oldest man found his tongue and said, ‘We are oathbreakers of Yelak, Your Highness.’

‘You are now the captives of Khareh-khan, his great eminence, high sage and lord of Darhan,’ said Garus. Wadi bit down on her tongue to stop from scoffing. Khareh was no better than an oathbreaker himself. ‘Two nights ago, you were found deserting your tribes in battle, breaking the solemn oaths you had pledged to your clans. You are the lowest of the low, and your punishment would be exile to the Sola desert, never to return to your homes again.’ The oathbreakers winced at his every word. ‘But our khan, in his great wisdom, has offered you a choice: exile, or join his spirit-army, and remain in Darhan.’

‘We want to join the army,’ said the oathbreaker, his voice struggling to remain steady.

Wadi frowned. She couldn’t believe that Khareh was offering the oathbreakers a chance to avoid their exile. She narrowed her eyes, surveying the scene, looking for something she was missing.

‘You understand what the Khan has asked you to do?’ probed Garus.

‘I think so,’ said the man.

Khareh stepped forward from behind Garus. His normal, smug expression was gone, replaced by something altogether more serious. His mouth was set in a firm line, and creases appeared on his forehead. In his hand, there was a length of golden thread. ‘Do you have your promise string?’ he asked the oathbreaker, who was now visibly shaking.

Wadi knew what it was like to be approached by that enormous, jaguar-fanged crown – and the boy wearing it. She would be shaking too.

Khareh took the man’s promise string, and tied it into a loose knot. He gave one end to the man. Wadi noticed that Khareh’s shadow-companion – the spirit of Raim – hovered close by, a swirling grey cloud. The man’s eyes darted between Khareh and the shadow, and Wadi knew he would be looking at Raim’s face. He would see the proof that Khareh was a powerful sage, that he was able to control his shadow. Wadi also knew that the man’s own spirit – or
haunt
, as they were known to oathbreakers – would be screaming abuse in his ear. It was why all oath-breakers fled into exile, driven away not just by their shame, but also by the constant berating from the shadow. They would only be released from the torment once they reached Lazar.

She’d heard stories of oathbreakers who didn’t head straight for Lazar. Despite the torment of their haunts, they tried to sneak back to their tribes to beg forgiveness of the person whose oath they broke – or worse, tried to kill the oathmaker to free themselves of the burden. But with the presence of the haunt and the scar, they were easy to spot in Darhan. And if they were caught heading anywhere other than the desert, they were often killed on sight: stoned to death by those too terrified to do anything else.