Scimitar War (11 page)

The trail led ever higher up the mountain. Camilla climbed steadily, not even attempting to be quiet. On the contrary, she hoped the cannibals found her quickly; she wouldn’t be able to resist the hunger much longer.

She was not disappointed.

The trip line she stumbled over released a long, supple branch bowed back under great strain. As thick as Camilla’s arm and studded with sharp stones on its leading edge, it would have torn a normal person in half. But Camilla was no longer normal.

She raised her arm in time to intercept the branch as it swept across the trail. She heard a loud crack, and felt a numbing shock to her forearm. Two of the sharpened stones had flayed her open, but it was the branch, not the bones of her arm, that had snapped. She flung the branch aside and shook the ichor from her arm even as the wounds began to close.

Camilla raised her head at the sound of running. Two people—sentries, apparently posted up the trail—had been alerted by the noise of the trap’s discharge. Assuming that whoever had set off the trap had been disabled by it, they made no effort to be silent, and burst around a curve in the trail, only to pull up sharply when confronted by Camilla. The two men, both tall and well built, sported the typical piercings and bone jewelry of the cannibals. Camilla recalled similar decorations on the cannibals at Scimitar Bay, remembered the unthinkable things they had done to those she had asked to stay. She let the rage of the demon surge within her, welcoming it for the first time.

One of the men muttered something, and although their dialect was thick, it was similar enough to the familiar native language that Camilla understood the word “Ghost.”

“No,” she replied in the native language, careful to speak slowly. “I am flesh.”

“You speak!” the other man said, grinning and brandishing a wickedly spiked club. “Come, then, white-skin, flat-tooth woman. You will make good sport before you feed us.” His friend laughed, and they stepped forward, weapons ready.

Camilla stood for a moment, relishing the scent and sound of their blood, admiring the veins that ran just beneath the lean skin of their arms and necks, feeling their heartbeats as if she was pressed up against their powerful chests. She breathed deeply and felt the hunger flare.

“White skin, yes,” she said calmly, “flat tooth, no.” But it was her smile that silenced their laughter. They were both head and shoulders taller than she, so she apparently looked harmless enough.

She taught them differently.

Camilla plunged clawed fingers deep into one man’s chest, tightening her grip until his ribs splintered. As his scream split the jungle silence, the other man raised his weapon to strike. She lashed out with her free hand, the force of the blow sending him flying into the brush. She would deal with that one later. The man she held flailed at her ineffectually, his frantic blows feeling like the patter of rain. His screams shrilled as she grinned and pulled him down to the sabers of her teeth, then dissolved into delicious gurgles and the rush of warm blood…and power.

≈

The crowd stilled to an expectant hush as the executioner drew close to her victim. Her dark, animated eyes travelled up and down Dura’s stocky physique, examining her critically, as if inspecting a piece of granite she was about to sculpt or a blank canvas she was going to paint. Dura tried to close her eyes as the grinning woman approached, but a nauseating curiosity held her rapt. The serrations on the obsidian blade seemed as large and lethal as shark teeth as they neared her flesh.

“Well, Maker, I’m comin’ ta meet ya,” she murmured.

A shout, high-pitched and feminine, rang out from the back of the crowd, and the entire tribe turned, murmuring with curiosity. The executioner glanced around, her expression transformed from glee to rage. Dura craned her neck, but she was too short and the cannibals were massed too thickly for her to see what was happening.

Another shout rang out, an ululating battle cry that devolved into a horrific shriek. The crowd of cannibals murmured and shifted back, shoving and jostling one another. Several brandished weapons, and it seemed that a full-on brawl might commence. Then a woman called out in the native language, and everyone froze.

Dura jerked so hard at her bonds that she cracked her head against the wooden frame. The cannibals’ attention was away from her, and even her executioner had joined the crowd. If she was ever going to get a chance, this was it. Then the crowd parted before her. Dura glimpsed a flash of red amidst the shifting bodies as they moved aside and the newcomer stood before her. The dwarf sagged against the wooden frame and stared in disbelief.

“Camilla?”

Dura looked at her friend and nearly choked. The flash of red she had seen could have been Camilla’s crimson hair, or her scarlet dress, or the bright blood that painted her pale skin. Her arms were red to the elbow, gore dripped from her fingertips, and blood had spattered her from chin to the décolletage of her gown. Beyond Camilla, through the parted crowd, Dura saw the source of the blood. A warrior lay in a twisted heap, one arm bent at an impossible angle, his broad chest flayed open. She looked back at Camilla, and the woman’s blood-drenched lips curved up in a smile.

“Hello, Dura.”

The voice was Camilla’s, but something lurked beneath that calm contralto, something dark and powerful that sent a chill up her spine. Dura ignored the bloody mess and looked into her friend’s eyes. At first she thought that the dim light was playing tricks with her vision. Instead of their normal vibrant blue, Camilla’s eyes were two polished orbs of blackest obsidian.

“Camilla!” she croaked again, unable to comprehend what had happened to her friend.

In a flash, Camilla’s eyes shifted to blue and went wide, as if she only now recognized her friend.

“Dura!” she said, urgency replacing the chilling calm. “I’ve got to get you out of here.” She stepped forward, reaching for the leather bonds.

She was intercepted by Dura’s would-be executioner. The woman brandished her serrated knife, shouting and shaking with rage, pointing first at Dura, then at the mutilated warrior. Camilla snapped a sharp command to the woman in the native language, then turned back to Dura. As she stepped past the woman, the cannibal struck.

“Camilla!” Dura called in warning…too late.

The cannibal bared her pointed teeth in a feral grin, and buried her obsidian blade to the hilt in Camilla’s slim waist. Dura gaped in shock when, instead of crying out and collapsing, Camilla simply grasped the woman’s wrist, her blue eyes flashing black. There was a sound like dice clattering on a stone table, and a guttural scream tore out of the woman’s throat. Her knees buckled and she released the hilt of the dagger. Camilla grabbed the woman’s hair with her free hand and wrenched her head back, then stooped down to the exposed throat. Her crimson hair fell forward to hide the sight from Dura’s view.

The woman’s horrific scream echoed through the clearing before dying in a strangled gurgle. Her body convulsed, then went slack. Camilla dropped the corpse, its throat a ragged mess of torn meat, and straightened. Fresh blood coated her lips and chin, and for an instant, Dura thought that her mouth bristled with dagger-like teeth. Camilla stood still for a moment, her head held high, obsidian eyes flashing, her hair, dress and the gore dripping from her chin all the same crimson hue; a beautiful yet repulsive goddess of blood. Then she shuddered and looked toward Dura, her eyes fading to sapphire once again.

Dura couldn’t help but cringe when Camilla wrenched the knife from her abdomen and reached for the leather bonds. The blade was coated not with blood, but with a sickening black ichor. Dura swallowed hard and whispered, “Who are you?
What
are you?”

“I’m Camilla,” she said, though there was some doubt in that claim. “Yes, for at least a while longer, I’m Camilla, and I’m here to free you, Dura.” She slashed the leather bindings at Dura’s ankles and wrists, then handed the weapon to her. “Free the others and follow the trail down to the beach. Paska and Tipos are waiting with
Flothrindel
.”

Dura grasped the hilt with numb fingers. Her mind felt equally as numb as she tried to comprehend the last few moments. Beneath all the gore, this was her friend, Camilla, her face drawn, her eyes wide, and her hands clenched in bloody fists by her side. Despite her other actions, she had set Dura free. “What about you?” she asked.

“I’m staying,” Camilla said, a sad yet cold determination edging her voice. “This is the only place I can live and not harm the ones I love, Dura. These…people deserve me for what they did, and I deserve them.”

A dangerous murmur spread through the crowd as Dura stepped down from the wooden frame, dagger in hand. Camilla glared at them and they quieted, then she jerked her head toward the caged prisoners. “Go now, and hurry!”

Dura wasted no more time in conversation, but hobbled to the nearest cage, sawed through the leather bindings, and helped the woman inside to crawl out. She heard the cannibals shout, but their protests were immediately quelled by Camilla’s harsh commands.

Dura dared a glance back. Several cannibals had raised their weapons, but Camilla was pointing to the two corpses she had made and gesturing emphatically. The crowd quailed, many ducking their heads and backing away. Dura kept working, and in short order all of the prisoners were free. Though stumbling and stiff from their long confinement, they didn’t hesitate when Dura urged them toward the path to freedom. She turned once more toward Camilla, and found the woman staring at her with those black-on-black eyes.

“Go, Dura!” her friend commanded. A sad smile flicked onto her face, then disappeared. “Go, and tell everyone to avoid this island. There’s nothing here but death and blood.”

Dura didn’t have to be told twice; she shuffled after her fellow prisoners and headed down the trail.

≈

Camilla breathed a sigh of relief as her friends fled into the jungle. She watched the tribe to ensure that none followed. They watched her back, muttering and glancing every so often at the two bodies that lay cooling on the ground. She caught a few words; they feared her, and resented her interference, but a few uttered words of awe and respect.

The proximity of so many beating hearts, so much blood rushing through veins, was distracting, but the demon had fed well and she had expended little power. With the hunger sated, she was able to maintain control. She listened, but could not detect her friends any longer. They were safe from the cannibals…and from her.

This is my life now
, she thought as she looked down at the blood on her hands. Her heart twisted in her chest as she thought of Emil and what might have been, what she had lost. The voice in her mind, which she had fought so terribly to suppress until her friends had escaped, rose in scornful laughter. Perhaps one day, when the cannibals were gone and she had nothing more to feed it, it would feed on her and end her pain. The thought of the demon trapped forever on the island by the hated sea gave her some small satisfaction.

Pointing at the bodies, she called out in a loud voice, “Feast!”

The responding cries of elation revolted her, but that was something she was just going to have to get used to.

≈

“Holy Odea!”

Tipos’ sharp whisper drew Paska’s attention from feeding little Koybur. She wasn’t sure what she expected to see—a charging tribe of cannibals, Camilla hurtling some fearful magic at them—but it wasn’t the sight that actually met her eyes. More than a dozen forlorn, naked figures hobbled out of the jungle and down the beach.

“I’ll be damned to all de Nine Hells,” she whispered as she plucked the baby from her breast, “she did it!”

Tipos was already in the water and making his way ashore. Paska tucked Koybur down into the cabin, then hastened back to help. Their friends had crossed the sand and entered the surf. Two of the men supported Dura between them when the water became too deep for her. One by one Paska helped them aboard, their giddy laughter making it light work. When Dura tumbled over the gunwale and sprawled gracelessly into the cockpit, she greeted them with a grim smile.

“By the Maker’s Hammer, you two’re a welcome sight!” Dura folded her arms over her chest. “Don’t suppose ye brung a spare shirt or a pair of britches, did ye?”

“Sorry, Dura, but no.” Paska shouted for someone to haul up one of the spare sails. “You can hunker under de canvas to stay warm, but I t’ink yer gonna hafta go native ‘til we be gettin’ to Vulture Isle.”

They quickly pulled the rest of the ex-captives aboard, then Tipos hauled himself up and into the cockpit. There was barely room in the small boat for everyone, and sailing would be tricky with so much weight aboard, but Paska knew they would manage.

“Vulture Isle?” Dura asked, crinkling her brow. “Why not back to Plume? Don’t tell me those damned pirates are still—”

“No, Miss Dura, de emperor’s whole bloody navy ran dem bastards off.” Paska made no attempt to soften her caustic tone. Just the thought of Joslan made her fume. She gripped the tiller hard and waved to Tipos to haul the anchor and set the jib. “We not gonna be welcome back dere since we kinda stole de
Flothrindel
to come rescue you. And,” she lowered her voice and spoke into Dura’s ear, “I t’ink Miss Cammy killed a couple of soldiers in doin’ it.”

“Speakin’ of which,” Dura said with a pronounced frown, “what in the Nine Hells happened to her?”

Paska glanced back to the beach, now dark in the fading light, and shook her head. “Dere’s a lot to tell, Miss Dura, but we best get outta here first. Dat cut’s gonna be a mite tricky wit’ hardly any light left an’ so many aboard; we might take on some wata. We need to get all de weight we can down low, and I’m sorry, but dat means you.”

Many hands helped Dura down the companionway steps. The bow came off the wind as Tipos hauled the anchor aboard, and wind filled the mainsail and jib. Paska held tight to the tiller and angled the boat close to the wind. Muttered voices rose from below as everyone shifted, trying to find a stable position. It was crowded, with some people crouching and others lying low, packed like sail bags in a locker. But they were safe, and that was all that mattered.

Paska kept her eyes on the ocean, banishing for now all thoughts of the friend they had left behind. She steered toward the cut through the reef, and they beat through the gap and into the open sea.