Moon's Artifice (52 page)

Why ?

Irato wasn’t a man to sacrifice himself. Irato wasn’t the sort to cover some stranger’s escape, and the masked goshe was no Detenii – that much Sho could see. They were a tight-knit group built over years and betraying that wouldn’t be for selfless reasons.

Why then ? What did I miss ?

The darkness took him before any answers came.

Narin ran without thought. The quiver slapped and rattled on his back, the only thing that was real in the grey murk of outside. In the vague distance there came dulled sounds and diffuse lights – nothing he could make sense of and he had no time to try. A clatter at the open sanatorium gate behind him turned into the heavy tramp of boots in pursuit – not slowing to check on the guards Narin had surprised there. Angry shouts echoed off the high outer wall as they fanned out, his small head-start enough to let the fog swallow him up.

Clumps of grass seemed to leap up at his knees out of the dark. He careened around them as best as he could without slowing, but skidded off the side of one and his foot went from underneath him. As he thumped down onto his side, the bruising from his torture seemed to burst into life again. The impact drove the air from his lungs and for a moment his vision went white with pain.

It was the chill and damp touch of mud against his skin that brought his senses back. He used his sword to push himself up, leaning on it like an old man before fear overrode the hot flowers of pain in his muscles. He pushed forward, lurching wildly until he caught his balance, but then he stopped.

Narin looked left and right. In the tumble he wasn’t sure if he was facing in the right direction any more. There were no stars or features of the land to guide him, nothing but that damned fog hiding everything from sight.

He took a hesitant step forward, deciding to go straight and hope he’d not got turned too far around. In the next moment a dark shape loomed out of the fog, a goshe with a long black scarf wound around his face. The goshe stopped in surprise as he saw Narin and the two looked each other up and down. The other was taller than he, broader too and for a moment Narin felt Irato’s name form on his lips. Then he realised the man carried a curve-bladed spear and just as the goshe began to say something Narin lunged forward with his sword.

It was an awkward thrust, but the sword slid easily enough into the goshe’s chest. The goshe gave a wheeze, something between disbelief and agony. Narin hesitated, arm extended, as the spear dropped from the man’s grip. The goshe looked down at the steel in his chest and staggered back, drawing himself off Narin’s blade, knees buckling as he began to wail piteously and clasped his hands to the blood flowing from the wound.

Narin watched the man’s pain in horrified fascination. It had happened so quietly, so smoothly, that he froze at the sight of a man dying before him. Then the goshe flopped sideways, one hand out to break his fall and somehow keeping upright as the fear and panic in his voice increased. That spurred Narin into action again and he chopped down at the goshe’s neck with all the force he could muster.

He felt the blade snap bone and plough on through. The dying man spasmed and went still, the blade caught deep in his body. Narin wrenched it back out again and stood looking down at the ruined mess of meat that had so recently been a man. His breathing was ragged and pained for a long moment of silence as revulsion welled up inside him.

Narin wanted to vomit, but managed to force himself to turn away and take a few steps. Suddenly he was filled with a need to escape the deed and he broke into a run again, racing blindly through the fog with the hot stink of terror in his nose.

The crack of wood rang out from somewhere on his right and Narin veered left, almost falling when he saw a huge shape loom up ahead. Unable to stop he stumbled away from it and thumped into the bare stone of a jutting lump of rock. The rough edge snagged his sleeve and he heard the cloth tear as he was jerked to a halt. Narin groaned as the impact sent a shooting pain down his sword arm, the weight of the weapon suddenly dragging his arm down.

He cast around for anything that might tell him where he was, but aside from the broken-topped rock he could see nothing. He stood and gasped for breath, working his shoulder in a circle to try and get some feeling back. As his panic increased, he yanked the goshe mask from his head and gulped down the cold night air, trying to make sense of where he was going. Skirting the rock, he turned in a full circle, but all he saw was the air tear apart some twenty-odd yards away and a path of yellow flames leap up from the ground. In its wake a man shrieked, clothes alight and flailing fruitlessly against the terrible fire, before collapsing to the ground and falling silent.

He started off in the other direction, trying to move stealthily to avoid the attention of whatever terrible weapon had done that. After a few yards he stopped, seeing pale shapes in the fog – waist height and still. He edged closer and realised it was a woman crouching, wearing just a thin white shirt and skirt. She was crowned with a halo of bright mist and as he neared her it began to move and swirl through the air.

Narin raised his sword but the woman did not rise, only turned her head towards him. Her eyes shone in the darkness, lambent orbs inside her head, and with a lurch Narin realised she was not goshe, but some native of the Imperial City. The shining mist, he guessed, was a fox-spirit possessing her and, as though to confirm that, her hand awkwardly rose from the ground and beckoned him forward.

He found himself obeying, almost relieved at the sight of a fox-demon out in the darkness. Irato had said there would be others on the island, secreting themselves on the boats of fever-struck, but Narin hadn’t realised until then they had also taken over the minds of people. He headed towards her, sword brushing the low twists of gorse that covered the ground, but before he could reach her there was a sudden rush of bright mist away from him.

The woman barely had time to turn her head before the fox-spirits had abandoned her and a searing path of fire tore through the fog. It struck her with the force of a God’s punch, smashing her backwards as her hair and clothes ignited. Unlike the previous victim, though, the woman fell without a sound and didn’t move again as the flames hungrily consumed her.

‘Hello precious,’ whispered a voice in Narin’s ear.

He tried to turn and bring his sword to bear, but was struck a terrific blow on his shoulder. It jerked the weapon from his hand and a kick sent him sprawling on his back. Dazed, he looked up at a black-masked goshe who held a crossbow in hands that crackled with trails of lightning.

‘Miss me ?’ the woman said.

Narin’s stomach lurched as he recognised her ; Synter, the woman who’d captured him at Coldcliffs. Rage and terror clashed in his mind as Narin scrambled for a weapon, but Synter just laughed and darted forward with unnatural speed. She grabbed his wrist and twisted his knife from its grip, tossing the weapon off into the darkness. Shoving him back down again, Synter retrieved his sword and threw that after it.

‘Now keep quiet or the bad man will get you,’ she hissed, raising her crossbow.

Narin looked past her and blearily made out a faint shape in the fog – visible only because it was huge and as pale as bone. Slung under one arm was a long, fat weapon of some kind – not a spear, he realised after a moment, but shorter and with a blunt snub tip. The figure turned towards them as the air around Synter’s crossbow cracked for one fierce moment and some sort of fuse ignited on the quarrel.

She fired and dove for the cover of the rocks Narin had just left. He glimpsed a corkscrewing trail of light race towards the giant before the air above where she’d been standing was ripped apart.

A great wash of heat slashed down onto his skin, causing Narin to cry out and wrench his protesting body away. Mere yards away the undergrowth blossomed yellow and orange, then a crack split the sky and a fiercer light exploded around the giant – a Stone Dragon, Narin realised as he rolled through the blessedly cool, damp grass.

When he looked back up, Synter was nowhere to be seen but the Stone Dragon was still standing. It stormed towards him with weapon levelled, casting around for the goshe. Its armour was flame-scarred and cracked, Narin saw – blackened down one side of its torso with a fissure running down the all-enclosing armour that looked more like porcelain than steel. A broad-bladed short-sword was in its other hand ; almost as long as Narin’s but stubby in the fist of the Stone Dragon.

It closed on him rapidly, but Narin realised one leg was moving more stiffly than the other. Synter had hurt it, but it was far from dead. Closer still and Narin could see the faint contours of nose and jaw in the shape of the helm, while large almond-shaped indentations indicated its eyes. The Stone Dragon’s gaze paused only briefly on him, just long enough to confirm he was no threat and return to the rocks where Synter was hiding. It moved obliquely, searching for others while it hunted her. Narin could see no more of the Astaren, but he knew there would be others. House Dragon was not in the habit of using anything but excessive force.

From behind it, Narin heard the clatter of running feet through the gorse bushes. The Dragon was already turning, its weapon casting a blast of infernal heat across the ground. Three figures of flame appeared in the dark, while a fourth reached the Dragon only to have its spear-thrust turned with contemptuous ease. Narin blinked in shock as he watched the fat blade drive into the attacker and rip out their side with a casual flick. The goshe fell dead, but in the next moment a second spitting quarrel flew through the night and exploded into blinding light a few yards shy of the Stone Dragon.

The terrible weapon carved a path across the ground as he turned after Synter, but then a bigger goshe burst up from the ground with an enormous flanged mace. Moving with the unnatural speed of the elite, the goshe swung the mace down against the Dragon’s arm and managed to force it off balance before lunging forward with the spiked head. That smashed into the Stone Dragon’s damaged side and something erupted in the breach with another great flash and crack of thunder. This time the wound was greater and the Dragon was thrown backwards, staggering while the goshe batted away the heat lance. Then Synter was there, the air filling with crackling light as she darted in to drive a knife into the wound and up into its body.

The Astaren dropped, groggily trying to break its fall with its sword, but its arm folded under the weight and it crashed face down, dead. Synter’s companion – broad enough to be of Dragon descent himself – made sure with one overhead blow. That done, the goshe dragged at the heat lance attached to the Astaren’s arm trying to tug it free.

At first it was stuck fast but he persisted – driving the top spike of his mace into what appeared to fix it in place while bursts of lightning raced from his hands. Under such assault the clasp popped open and the goshe gave a triumphant shout as he hauled it clear and held it up.

‘Careful,’ Synter warned him, ‘who knows what it’ll do if you try to use it.’

The big man nodded and lowered the weapon. ‘Time to play later,’ he agreed.

The two of them approached Narin, still lying dazed on the ground. His cheek prickled hot from the near miss by that heat lance and his legs were incapable of supporting him, so Narin could only watch them come.

‘Think you’ve got something of ours,’ Synter said. ‘I felt the ritual be interrupted and from the shape on your back, you’ve got something that belongs to me.’ She cocked her head. ‘Time to kill you I think. You’ve been enough of a pain right now and your Astaren friend here ain’t going to help you now.’

With one practised movement Synter sheathed her knife in favour of a pair of hatchets and resumed advancing on Narin. The Investigator scrabbled backward through the scrub, gorse bushes dragging at his clothes and scratching his back. He tried to stand and run but his legs failed him and before he could try again the other goshe had circled around him. The man gave him a hefty kick in the side ; enough to knock him back down and leave him wheezing at Synter’s feet.

‘Now’d be a good time for any last words,’ she commented idly. ‘Anything ?’

‘Yes !’

That seemed to surprise her and Synter lowered her axe a touch. ‘Oh. Yes ?’

‘I, ah, yes,’ Narin gasped. ‘He, ah, he wasn’t my friend.’

‘No ?’ She glanced back at the Astaren. ‘Well he’s dead now, so either way you’re fucked.’

The other goshe gave a grunt that Narin took to be agreement, but then the man unexpectedly lurched forward and almost toppled on top of Narin. The man staggered a few steps before straightening, one hand clasped to his forehead as though dazed by a blow.

‘What was that ?’ Synter demanded, turning.

‘His friend,’ called a voice from the gloom of fog.

A dark, ghostly shape drifted forward – then seemed to tear apart as Enchei raised an arm and his cloak opened. Narin only heard a deadly zip through the air and the repeated thwacks of something striking. He saw nothing part the fog, but the goshe Dragon shuddered under the impact and gasped in shock and pain. He stood a moment longer, frozen to the spot, until a second flurry of Enchei’s darts cut through the night and felled him.

Synter had already dived away from the path of the shots and rolled back to her feet, kicking onto the attack in the next instant. Enchei let her come until the last possible moment, jerking to one side to avoid a blow and stepping in to batter his shoulder against the goshe’s. It deflected her momentum and he turned gracefully away, content to let her come again. She obliged him, slim axe-heads slicing through the air with remarkable speed as she wove a path towards him. Enchei carried his short-sword and baton, but seemed unconcerned about the goshe’s lightning-swift slashes. He backed steadily away, weapons low and merely flicking at the strokes that came sufficiently close.

‘Fight, you fucking coward,’ she yelled, only to have Enchei step abruptly forward and drive a boot into her midriff.

It didn’t knock her over, but she reeled under the impact and afforded Enchei space to level his baton at her. Synter was rocked back by some invisible impact, one hatchet falling from her hand as she sank to her knees, too weak to stand.