The Way of Things: Upper Kingdom Boxed Set: Books 1, 2 and 3 in the Tails of the Upper Kingdom (76 page)

Effective,
he thought. The reputation of Dogs was well deserved.

In front of him, a row of blades
sat waiting.

He released a long, slow breath.
Chih’ Ling
.
Death of a Thousand Slices. They would cut him to pieces while he
yet lived. Slivers of flesh at first, then slices, then slabs. Ears, nose,
tongue, tail. Limbs next, then eyes, and strips of pelt. Pieces of innards. It
could literally take days for him to die. He could hope for no honorable death
now, no swift decapitation, no dagger to the heart. But, even as the horror of
it began to sink into his bones, he realized that he deserved no less. He had
killed his brother. He deserved all of this, and more.

He stared at the blades, not even
hearing the gar-flap open. It wasn’t until the fresh smell of incense fell over
him that he looked up.

White fingers lifted the hood.
White eyes stared down at him.

“Captain,” said Jet barraDunne.
He made a face. “That… looks uncomfortable. I regret what the dogs have done to
you.”

Kirin set his molars. There was
nothing to be gained.

“In fact,” the First Mage went
on,” I regret much about this entire journey. I wish I had it to do over. I
would change many things.”

The man leaned back, eyes roaming
over the Captain’s beaten body, from the leathers binding his wrists to the
trees to the desert linens, torn and hanging in many places and finally, to the
tattered sash of Imperial gold. Most especially that.

“But even like this, Captain, I
must admit you are impressive. I can understand the Empress’ infatuation. You
are aware she will be married by the New Year? We knew that by ensuring you
left
Pol’Lhasa,
the Empire would be
restored.”

He bent a little lower now, as if
needing to keep his voice low.

“You understand, surely. It only
benefits the Kingdom when the matriarchy is secured. I found him, you know. A
suitor from Abyssinia. They will have beautiful kittens. You should be
flattered, for he looks like you.”

Kirin forced his eyes back to the
daggers. It was a far more palatable sight.

“He is dying, however. It is
unfortunate, but true. He has malHaria. Terrible disease. Caught it on the way
home from
Pol’Lhasa
. Might last a
day, might last a year. Just long enough to sire a Sacred kitten. That is all
we need from him. He will serve his Empire well, don’t you think?”

Dying.
As surely as the one who loved her.

“Yes. And Sherah al Shiva. I have
never met any man who has been able to resist her magic. She believes herself
to be in love with you. Fascinating, isn’t it? For
Kunoichi
to come under the spell of her prey. Yes, you are impressive
indeed.”

His arms were aching. He tried to
stand. It was very difficult.

“I’m curious – were you
even tempted to bed her? I have tried with that one for many years, but no
luck, I’m afraid. She’s a mystery, that woman. But you know how we Alchemists are
fond of our mysteries…”

The white tiger smiled at his
joke, let it fade swiftly. He was no fool. The Captain was in no mood.
Understandably. He cleared his throat.

“Where is the Ancestor?”

Naturally, the Captain said
nothing. He tried to stand.

“They are going to kill you, you
know. Killing a lion is an extraordinary thing in canine culture. This Leader
will be made a Khan because of you. What do you think of that?”

He could do this. He could stand.

“They will want your brother as
well. The oracle had promised them two lions. Can’t you just hear the tales
– our beloved Kaidan dying the Death of a Thousand Slices, at the hands
of a new Khan. It will be told ‘round fires from one end of the Kingdom to the
other. I shudder just to think about it…”

Now, barraDunne moved in very
close. “I can do nothing about
you
,
Captain. Your fate is out of my hands. But if you tell me where the Ancestor
is, I will spare your brother this dishonor. Believe me or no, I do not wish to
see him dead. The stories are most entertaining.”

Kirin closed his eyes. He could
not stand.

And suddenly, there was a hand on
his head, gently stroking his brow, smoothing his loosed mane. The touch was
welcome, even from such a man as barraDunne. It would likely be the last kind
thing he would know.

“As I said, I regret this, more
than you can imagine. I will check on you later, dear Captain. Perhaps you will
have considered my offer.”

He lifted the hood back up to his
face, turned with a swirl of his black robes, and left the tent.

The red dog watched him go.

***

They came upon bloodstained rocks
and the remains of a once-great battle horse. The Major dismounted, stunned.
Losing her horse in the desert of
Hirak
had
been difficult. She had been with that creature for years, but this struck to the
very core. alMassay. The Captain’s mount. And therefore, the Captain.

More dependable than soldiers,
he had always said.
More faithful than men.

Slowly, she looked up at the
Seer. “Do you see anything?”

benAramis looked down at her in
turn, swallowing. He did not want to see any more death. His own heart had been
shattered as he died with Path, the falcon of
Sha’Hadin.
His heart and soul, his best friend for the last two
years. He did not wish to see the Captain.

“Well?”
she insisted.

“Nothing,” he lied, for in truth,
he would not try.

“They are dogs,” she snarled,
mounting again. “We can follow their spoor right to their filthy tents. Take
this fight right down their throats.” And she moved to spur her horse, but he
reached across the divide, grasped her wrist.

“Remember,” he said softly.
““They can do what they will to this, to the flesh, but no one can touch who
you are inside. Inside…”

“I am steel,” she finished. Her
voice was uncharacteristically quiet. “I know, Seer. I know.”

He smiled. It was forced, but
still.

And together, they wheeled their
horses southward, following the tracks of the dogs.

***

Kerris was not feeling well.

He had spent so much of his life
on the back of this pony that he could close his eyes and sleep, trusting his
friend to keep him safe, to slow if he was losing balance. And right now, as
they moved through trees and bluffs, rocks and forest, he could barely sit that
sturdy back, let alone keep his eyes open.

Quiz’s pace had slowed to a
steady jog, and it was only the stickiness of the blood that kept the long
sword tucked under his arm.

He was dying. He knew that full
well.

He had often wondered what that
might feel like, how it might end for him. With his unconventional way of life,
it could easily have happened on many occasions, some noble, some not so. He
could have just as easily slipped in a barfight as he could have frozen to
death on the peak of the virgin
Shagar’mathah,
when the view had taken his breath away. He could have just as easily died
in that accursed
Chi’Chen
pit as been
slain by any number of women’s husbands while he slept. He could have been
eaten by that bloody shark, drowned in some bloody river, eaten some bloody
rancid meat. His mad lover, the lightning, could have at any time betrayed him,
and killed him the way she did so many others. The way he lived, anything at
all could have killed him.

He had never expected it to be
his brother.

That pained him more than the
wound itself, bled him drier of life than that which was soaking anew the
remains of his tunic. He wanted that death now, would not stop until he found
it.

Quiz slowed to a halt, and Kerris
opened his eyes. He had been dozing yet again. It was late afternoon, the sun
high in this new land’s sky, and he was on a ridge overlooking a forest. He
rubbed his eyes but could see nothing of interest. He gave Quiz a nudge, but
the pony stepped backwards and snorted.

“Oh please, Quiz. Just move.” And
he nudged him again, with his heels this time. The pony snorted again, began
backing up in the jerking way of four-legged animals, and Kerris grit his teeth
and kicked hard.

Quiz reared and Kerris was
hard-pressed to stay on. When the pony regained his footing, the grey lion slid
from his back, long sword still tucked under one arm and he swung around to face
his shaggy companion.

“Are you a coward too, then?
There is nothing here! Nothing!” And to prove it, he marched towards the ridge,
where a dog pulled himself up from the rocks.

***

The wind was blowing toward them,
keeping their scent from alerting their enemies, and they could see the tents
from where they stood, on a low mountain overlooking a forested plain. There
were only three tents but they were large, within several circles of flame, and
they could see many dogs milling about. There was even a flash of black, as cat
moved amongst dog in a most unnatural fashion.

Two against more than thirty. The
odds were not good. The Major was working on a plan.

“They must be keeping him in one
of those tents,” she was saying. “I will lure them out, while you slip in and
find him, get him out as quickly as you can…”

“Major, there is a problem…”

“And that is?”

He sighed. “The Alchemists know
I’m here.”

She scowled. “How?”

“These are versed in the Gifts as
well as the Arts, remember? They have been searching for my thoughts and they
have found them.”

“And so? Where are they, then?”

He turned his head, as many dogs
rose up behind them.

“Idiot,” she hissed, and leapt
from the back of her horse, both swords singing from their scabbards. Likewise,
the Seer pulled the staff from across his back, but chose to stay in the
saddle, hoping that the speed and force of his mount would increase his odds.

Together, they charged, and blood
sprayed across the rocks.

***

The dog was smiling as he
approached, swinging his curved sword in savage arcs and Kerris took a step
back, trying to pry the long sword from the stickiness of his tunic. His right
arm was almost useless, so he caught the hilt in his left and was surprised as
the dog hesitated on his approach.

In that moment, Kerris realized
three things. That the dog was alone, that he
,
Kerris,
had a katanah
– the fabled sword of the
Shah’tyriah
,
and that he himself was a lion.

“Come on,” he growled, lashing
his tail and knowing full well the dog could not understand. “Come on. You want
me to make you a Khan? Well, let’s do this, my friend. I am dead anyway. Try to
kill me.”

The dog
was
alone. His opponent
was
a lion, one with a fabled long sword. The lion was covered in blood. Under any
other circumstances, Kerris would have been dead within three strokes, but
these
circumstances shifted things
slightly and the seasoned soldier was thrown off balance at the sight of this
cat. He hiked his curved blade, ran in too quickly, engaged too carelessly. It
was ultimately his undoing.

The swords struck and Kerris
almost lost it from his hand at the impact. In fact, as he struggled to regain
it, the dog lunged at him and bodily took him to the ground. All weapons or
skill were moot now, as the dog’s hands reached for Kerris’ grey throat. Kerris
tried to roll out from under the man, tried to kick him off but it was proving
hard enough to keep breathing and only his left hand made it up to ward off the
strangle hold. It wasn’t enough. It couldn’t be enough. This dog would quickly
be the end of him.

Kerris was not a good fighter. He
had never paid attention to his lessons of the Martial Arts, nor sword, staff
or bow. He had never yearned as a boy to do the things other boys had done, had
never fought others for the prize of a bruised eye, had never snuck into his
father’s armory to gaze at the weapons. He had never felt that particular
thrill. But right here, right now, he was angry, he was tired, and he was
dying. In short, Kerris Wynegarde-Grey was not himself.

Perhaps it was the betrayals - the
finding of oneself in the arms of a woman only to be rejected in the end in
favor of a lecture hall, or the finding of oneself at the wrong end of a
brother’s sword and to finally be silenced in one sudden flash of steel.
Perhaps he was just tired of being a grey-coated lion, or an insignificant
excuse for a lion, or a lion who preferred the company of tigers and monkeys.
Perhaps it was a combination of all these, plus the fact that yes, he was
indeed dying.

No, Kerris Wynegarde-Grey was not
himself.

But he
was
a lion.

So with a great snarl of rage and
frustration and will, he pulled his right hand up and together with the left,
he shoved his fingertips into the throat of the laughing dog, whose brown eyes
grew wide for one brief moment as Kerris Wynegarde-Grey unsheathed the claws of
a lion and held on for his life.

Blood sprayed across his face.

But he was a lion.

And so he held. The dog thrashed,
tried to pull away but its throat had been pierced and the struggles were in
vain. After several long moments, Kerris pushed the dead soldier off him,
reached with bloody fingers for the katanah, held it high above his head. With
another snarl, he brought it down, and the dog’s head rolled away from its body
and down the hill.

The long sword trembled before slipping
from his hand and Kerris sank back onto the rocks, finished.

But he was, at the end of it all,
a lion.

And so he lay there against the
rocks, watching the sun turn her eyes away and the moon come out to play. He
watched he sky grow red then purple then dark. He watched he first of the stars
came out to dance for him as his life ebbed like a low tide. The last thing he
remembered was the smell of incense, descending on him like the night.