Wolf's-own: Weregild (50 page)

He stepped from the darkness and met the men coming to join the battle head-on.

Surprise got him his first kill, coming out of the shadows as he did. The axe hit the joint between neck and shoulder with a squelching
thunk
, and the man took another two steps before he realized he was dead and went down. Unfortunately, he took the axe with him, and Joori lost the advantage when he forgot he had other weapons to draw and spent a few too-precious seconds trying to work the axe's edge loose from bone.

The second one was pure luck. Panicking just a little, trying to get his axe loose, Joori finally remembered he was still heavily armed. He tried to pull a knife, ended up with the broken arrow. He waved it clumsily to the side as he crouched a little for leverage and yanked at the axe. The second man died when Joori tripped backward as the axe came loose. Their feet tangled and the man ended up with Yori's arrow through his throat.

Bloody damn, Yori
, he thought, winded,
I really did love you. I
do
love you. I think I'll always love you.

"Joori!” he heard Malick shout, the clash of metal on metal strangely sweet and harmonic. “Son of a
bitch
!"

Joori had no idea if it was directed at him, the men Malick was fighting, or just life in general. Buzzed, almost high on panic and adrenaline, Joori laughed, something chillingly feral. The scent of blood, hot and metallic, was all over him, all around him. The scent of battle and his own rank sweat swamped through him, blending with the reek of smoke and sizzling fat, hazing his mind, his sight.

Violence had a taste, saccharine and sickening, and Joori drank it in.

Instinct took him, and he let it. Rolled because it told him to. Felt a peculiar little grin stretch his mouth as he watched the wide blade of a sword sweep the space where his head had been just a second ago. He came up swinging the axe, spun like he'd seen Jacin do. He didn't hit anything this time, but he didn't trip, and the four men surrounding him all flinched back. Instinct again moved him, took him back several paces ‘til he was no longer surrounded. But instinct couldn't suddenly turn him into a master warrior, and it couldn't make him disappear so he was no longer the center of attention to three men who were.

Restless, Subie gave another annoyed rumble in the distance, enough of a tremor that Joori felt it through his feet. Something in him seized it, took the strength of it in through his skin and twined it with the spirit that crouched in his core. Instinct again, all over him, a tingle over his skin, almost a warm whisper in his ear. Overwhelming and worryingly seductive.

He set it loose, everything, the unfurling spirit inside him weirdly grateful, like it wasn't really a part of him. Not
his
, but something
other
that lived inside him. The sheer might and fury of it almost sent him to his knees, but he kept his feet, took the adrenaline washing his nerves and twined that too. It wound out, and Joori let it, could almost see it as it spiraled from his body and back down into the earth, shook it. This time, when a split in the ground opened at his feet, he didn't panic—he aimed.

Like he'd watched Malick do in the alley, Joori flicked out his hand toward the man nearest him, loosed a savage shout of both terror and exaltation, twined too tightly together for him to tell them apart, then he flattened his hand palm-up, and snapped his arm. Shoved everything in him to follow the motion. And as the ground rose up then collapsed, taking the guard down with it in a great, crushing roar of destruction, Joori watched the man mashed and buried in front of him, and... felt nothing. No disgust, no compassion, no joy. Just stared for half a breath, set his jaw more firmly.

Turned his stare up to the next man.

It was... ingenious, if extremely risky. Husao had never seen nor heard of another instance in all time when a Null handed over his power to a mortal. There were no laws against it because it simply wasn't done, would likely never have occurred to anyone else but Kamen.
Temshiel
of Kamen's sort were rare—even Skel had not been ready for the Null power Bear had given him as a sort of answer to Wolf's making of Kamen—and none had ever been made without having first served for centuries before as
Temshiel
. Many had thought Wolf soft or even reckless when he made Kamen.

Husao had reserved judgment and merely waited. He, better than most, knew the vagaries of sight, and he was not foolish enough to think his own on a par with the gods'. Wolf had a purpose for Kamen, and Husao wanted to watch as he served it.

He nodded at Tatsu as he walked calmly through the Puppet Master's gates, waited for a challenge, but neither
Temshiel
nor maijin objected, merely stood to either side of the gates and watched him pass. Sora gave him the smallest of smiles, but Husao didn't know if it was merely courtesy, or if her sight had shown her something his hadn't. It was certainly possible. His sight was deep and wide-reaching, hers more short range and immediate; he wouldn't be surprised if she were able to see and interpret the night's events better than he could. He thought about stopping and consulting with her, but she might say something that would change his mind, and he didn't want that.

Husao kept walking, following the call of his son's Blood that had settled a sick weight in the center of his chest over a century ago, calling to his own Blood wordlessly like the low-level howl of a mindless revenant. The one mercy of the suns was that death was immediate, oblivion complete. Husao wondered if Asai had known that making and continuing to use those amulets would only perpetuate the torture of the last of Skel's sentience. Skel's death had been neither immediate nor complete. Asai hadn't paid nearly enough.

Perhaps this night, Husao could finally put the last of his son to rest, even as Jacin-rei did the same for his mother. Husao calmly stepped out of the path of a clutch of wide-eyed horses, screaming past him toward the gates. He smiled as one of the buildings on the southern end of the camp went up in flames.

Kamen's plan was simple in its audacity, sublime in its cunning. Draw all eyes to himself with chaos and mayhem. Allow the spirit-bound to use his magic, allow her to draw on the power of all those about her and slip it into the wash of magic all over this place. Mask it, diffuse it, so that none would feel it when the Puppet Master's Disappeared were put to rest, one by one, because unlike
Temshiel
magic, mortal magic died when the body did. Sleight of hand at its craftiest, because Kamen would get for his Catalyst everything he wanted, would destroy the Puppet Master and his “farm” like he'd been wanting to do since he'd returned to Ada, and he would break no laws in the doing. No Blood was exchanged, neither given nor taken, only Kamen's power, and that merely borrowed.

It was brilliant.

Husao's sight had refused to show him the possibility until Jacin-rei had walked out Kamen's door, so his own plan was much simpler: follow the call of his son's Blood, find the amulets and destroy them while Kamen and his people took all the risks. He would break no laws, and though it might put him out of favor with Dragon for quite a long time, he could not be punished.

The earth shuddered beneath Husao's feet, just as another several dozen horses screamed past him, wild-eyed and obviously panicked, and for a moment Husao thought the rumble had come from their hoofs. It was the tingle of magic that moved with the tremors that told him he'd misinterpreted, the swell of power over and above all of that of the
Temshiel
and maijin and half-Blood mortals that still bided at the gates, the pulse of it that came from the Puppet Master's estate like a sick, thumping heartbeat.

The futures-possible slipped through his sight like so much smoke, roiling and changing from one breath to the next, and he supposed it was because Jacin-rei was here, his changing directions determining one possibility then shifting it as his direction mutated and his focus altered. Not thinking things through, because Jacin-rei didn't think things through unless he was forced. Jacin-rei
did
, surrendered his mind to the din and moved on instinct alone. So Husao tried to focus on the others—watched the earth-bound die in endless horrible ways, saw him live as a result of miniscule changes in actions around him, saw the same with the younger brother and Kamen's own people, and all the
Temshiel
and maijin around them, all of the Puppet Master's men, and the Puppet Master himself.

There were just too many. Prediction was impossible.

All but one, and Husao followed the call to the place from where it wailed the loudest. Not, as he'd speculated, to the manor that sat atop the place, but to a long, squat reed and thatch building on the northwestern end. One of several, but the pulse pounded from one in particular, and Husao simply let it pull him.

No guards here, and he supposed with his son's magic beating at him from the other side of that door, he wasn't terribly surprised. The dawning knowledge that Xari was there, as well, however—that surprised him. And it really shouldn't have.

Husao hated surprises.

Setting his teeth and tightening his shields, Husao veiled himself and stepped through.

Samin had expected it to be dark, and it wasn't. He'd expected it to reek, and it didn't, at least not in the way for which he'd been prepared. He'd expected to have to take care of perhaps a few guards or at least caretakers, and he hadn't. He'd expected to be overcome by the sight, and in that he wasn't disappointed.

It hit him as soon as he neared the threshold—the stench of lye and soap, nearly overpowered by the scent of blood. Not the smell of decay and waste he'd been expecting, but not any better, really. He'd seen this before, so he shouldn't allow it to affect him the way it was doing, but the sheer
scale
....

Not even beds, but merely slatted frames, one atop the other like bunks, stretched out along both walls in straight rows. Pale, nude bodies lay on each of the frames, each with clean swaths of linen wrapped around both wrists, eyes thankfully closed in most cases, but some stared sightless up into nothing.

They looked clean, which surprised Samin. They weren't emaciated and wasting away, which surprised him more. He could still see the sunken face of that little Jin girl all those years ago, could see the brittle set of starvation and dehydration in her wasted body; could feel the dry silk of her hair between his fingers, the thin bones in her neck as they snapped against his palms.

"They've no hair,” Morin breathed, thin and shaky.

Samin peered up, almost surprised. He'd been so caught up in his own revulsion, he'd nearly forgotten he wasn't alone here, nearly forgotten what it was he was supposed to be doing. Gently, he angled Morin a little bit behind him and met his wide, terrified gaze with whatever calming comfort he could muster, which wasn't much. He laid a hand to the boy's shoulder.

Fen just stood there, blank-eyed, taking it all in without apparent emotion, shifting his level gaze up and down the aisles of bunks and bodies. Searching for one that looked familiar, perhaps, or maybe just deciding on the most efficient method of doing the job they'd come to do. Samin couldn't tell, and either was just as likely when it came to Fen. And then Fen shot a flat look to Morin, tapped the tip of a bloody blade to his bottom lip—a thinking pose, but it didn't look like he was really thinking—and stared like he was trying to fathom who Morin might be. His head tilted to the side, his stare, if possible, going even harder. Samin recognized the listening posture, came
this close
to swatting Fen out of it—he had enough unpleasant sensations crawling up his backbone, thank you—but he waited it out, trying not to wonder what those lunatics in Fen's head were screeching about now, and why they couldn't just shut the fuck up and die like they were supposed to.

And then Fen's eyes cleared, or at least some of the emptiness left them, and he turned his cold gray gaze on Samin.

"I'll start down the other end.” He flipped the knives in his hands, blades-out, and walked away.

Samin just watched him go, a little stunned, and he shouldn't be. He'd seen Fen put everything away but the killer before. But this....

"Why don't they have hair?” Morin warbled at him, and Samin dragged his eyes away from Fen's back, turned to the boy.

Wide, hazel eyes glittered in the low lamplight, tears held back and dammed, because
I'm not a child
, and no, he wasn't, really, but he
was
, and one of these mindless lumps of mortality used to be his mother. They were all someone's mother or sister or father or son, and how was Samin supposed to explain to this boy why, among all the other, more atrocious atrocities and degradations, they'd had their hair taken from them too?

The cold, observant part of Samin supposed the shaved heads made practical sense—no lice or fleas to worry about, none of the diseases they carried—but the part that thundered profound offense in his chest wondered if it was just another way to make these people seem more like nameless animals. There were no wounds on their heads, like the one that had scabbed over on that little girl by the time Mizin had led Samin down into his cellar and showed her off with smugness and a loathsome show of pride—
pride
, like she was some sort of pelt he'd made into a coat to boast of his prowess. And Samin really had to wonder how these people had been turned mindless without the evidence of the spike to the brain he'd seen on all the others.

"To make it easier to keep them clean, I guess,” Samin told Morin, relieved when the boy just accepted it silently and didn't ask him any more. Because Samin had his own questions and the answers seemed suddenly imperative.

Like, how was it that these people weren't emaciated and steadily dying? They were being fed somehow, or there wouldn't be so many of them, and what there were would be skin and bones, lasting maybe a month, if the “caretakers” were careful, two if they were lucky. There were at least a hundred in this barracks alone, and another five buildings besides.