Wolf's-own: Weregild (49 page)

Fen stared at him. “Malick's here?"

"You know he is, or at least you should.” Samin was a little tired of watching the two of them wend through their trust issues. Now was not the time. “He bloody
told
you he had—"

"He bloody
told
me a lot of things,” Fen said through his teeth. “Where's Joori?"

Samin opened his mouth, cut a glance down to the great big knife gripped in the gloved hand resting on Fen's knee.... He shut his mouth.

"Son of a
bitch
!” Fen breathed. He shot a tight-lipped glare at Morin, who had the good sense to shrink a little and keep quiet. With a long, heavy breath, Fen shut his eyes, pinched at the bridge of his nose. Morin shot an asking glance at Samin, but Samin could only shrug and tilt him what he hoped was a comforting smile. “Fine,” Fen finally muttered as he rubbed at his brow and peered at Samin. He waved his knife at the buggered latch on the post. “Show me how to do that. We'll move a lot faster if Morin and I help you.” He paused, and then reached out, laid his hand to Morin's shoulder and pointed a level stare at Samin. “And then you can help us."

They did move a lot faster. By the time they'd gotten through all of the pens and stables and corrals, the guards had discovered the problem with two of them, and a low buzz was humming, suspicion flaring almost visibly in the straightened backs and the way their eyes flickered everywhere at once. Samin was surprised he and Fen and Morin had managed to get all of the pens and corrals taken care of before he was forced to call on Shig. He'd optimistically hoped for maybe half, because really, even preoccupied with other tasks, looking in other places, a whole camp full of soldiers could hardly miss five hundred horses wandering around the estate. Fen and Morin had worked quickly, and could move a lot more freely than Samin could. They'd managed at least two-thirds of the lot.

Now Samin pulled them both toward the nearest building—a small tack shed, apparently—made sure they were all on the shadowed side with their bodies pressed flat, and gave Shig the signal. Morin had to cover his mouth and stifle a laugh when all the horses in their sight suddenly grunted or squealed or blew then took off at a dead run in the direction of the main gates. Shouts went up and whistles blew. In the confusion that ensued, Fen said the spell that would cover Morin once again in shadows, and they all took off for the first set of barracks.

Fen couldn't run. It was only now that Samin thought to wonder how he'd been walking. Adrenaline, likely, but whatever it was, it was wearing off, and Fen's limp was so pronounced it was almost a hobble. “Hobble,” hell—it was a full-fledged loping shamble. Samin discreetly adjusted his own gait to Fen's slower pace, and hoped like hell that bit of shadow to Fen's left was Morin.

A heavy
pop!
sounded from the south end of the complex. Samin turned with a bit of a grin, and took hold of Fen's elbow to turn him too. The northwestern side of the estate, where they stood, was set in the dip of a midsized rise then angled back up to where Yakuli's manor overlooked the whole of the tree- and wall-rung camp. Samin's grin broadened when he imagined the man himself peering down to watch the distant flames curl up over the rise as red-orange bloomed against the sky. Shouts went up, and were immediately drowned out by another
pop!
that Samin thought probably sounded much more dramatic when one was right up close to it.

"That'll be Malick,” he told Fen. “Taking out the soldiers’ barracks.” He breathed in deep, not yet able to catch a whiff of the smoke that he knew would be black and thick once the flames took hold of the wet wood. It didn't matter—he knew it was there. “Ah, mayhem,” he sighed then snorted as Fen rolled his eyes a little and took off again. Samin watched the brilliance of the fires coat the sky then followed.

Fen was panting by the time they hitched up at the first of four long, squat buildings that Samin was all too sure housed what was left of the Disappeared. Windowless and wood-framed, the buildings were all walled and roofed with woven reeds, wet and sharp-smelling with the rain. There were no guards here, which was what had piqued Samin's suspicions the other night when they'd come to spy, though now that his suspicions were all but foregone knowledge, he understood why. There would be no need to spend men and resources guarding those he knew would be inside. He'd seen it in another life, when he'd worn the livery of an arrogant lord who lusted after a pretty young Jin girl, not for her looks or what was between her legs, but for what ran through her veins.

Samin turned to face Fen squarely, though he knew before he even opened his mouth he'd be wasting his breath. Still, decency demanded, so Samin obeyed:

"Fen....” He paused, set his teeth. “You don't have to do this.” He nodded down at Morin as the shadows once again swirled and revealed him, leaning against his brother—Samin wasn't sure if it was comfort for Morin himself or support for Fen. “He shouldn't see this,” Samin told Fen. “This isn't—"

"I'm not a child,” Morin cut in, and indeed, his voice was low and calm. Not the reedy denial of a thwarted not-yet-grownup, but a reasonable statement of fact. “You said this was my right."

"You're not a child, and it is your right.” Samin looked at Fen again. “I've seen this before. So have you. You know what's in there. One at a time is hard enough to look at, but this is....” He trailed off. He'd said what he'd felt compelled to say. It was up to Fen.

Fen didn't answer, only turned to his brother and took one of his knives from a sheath strapped to his thigh. It was long with a wicked curve, and glinted with what seemed like its own malicious wink in the moonlight. He curled Morin's hand around the hilt. “From here—” Fen laid his finger to the left side of Morin's throat, just below his ear. “—to here.” Swept across to the other side, an invisible smile-shaped outline. “Firm and steady. Keep yourself to the side. If blood doesn't spray, you're not doing it right."

Stone-cold and emotionless. It made Samin shudder, and Morin paled a little. Samin watched the boy's throat bob as he swallowed heavily, and his hand came up to lay over where his brother's gloved finger had just traced, as though trying to erase the touch, or protecting himself from the reality of it.

"They won't feel it,” Samin offered as he shot an annoyed glance at Fen, but Fen merely stared back at him, that blank-eyed look with which Samin had become too acquainted and wished he'd never have to see again after tonight. “They've all gone beyond feeling their bodies,” Samin told the boy. “What we're doing tonight is a mercy."

"Yeah,” was all Morin said, voice thin as he cut a look Samin couldn't read up at Fen.

Fen, apparently done with it all, merely gave them each a flat, flinty stare then pushed past Samin and opened the flimsy door to the long hut. Morin took a long, deep breath, loosed a full-body shudder, then firmed his jaw and followed his brother. With a grimace, Samin shot one more glance down toward the flames at the other end of the camp, sent,
We're going in
, to Shig, and took up the rear.

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"Bloody hell,” Joori breathed as he watched the nut-sized ball of fire leave Malick's hand then whiz toward the barracks and explode into a great splatter of flame. The blast was nearly deafening, the flare nearly blinding, whooshing out and up. The heat and intensity sucked all the breath from Joori's lungs, baking his skin. The roar of the flames drowned out the thunder of hoofs—apparently Malick's signal to start burning the place down around them, though he hadn't bothered to tell Joori as much, only shoved him out of the way of the stampede and toward the barracks and then started lobbing fire. Joori watched the blaze for a long moment, watched Malick grin as shouts and screams went up from the conflagration. Joori only stared, wanting to frown or scowl, but his jaw was hanging. He'd thought Malick scary before—he'd had no idea. “There are men in there,” Joori said, his voice thin and thready as Malick yanked him along and headed for another building.

"Yeah, no shit,” Malick said absently, another tiny sphere of fire already twitching at the ends of his fingers as they dodged out of the path of another several now-terrified horses. “Kinda the point."

"But....” Joori stumbled a little, watching the macabre scene behind them as vaguely man-shaped globs of flame stumbled out of the building, their screams lancing into his head and grinding right down his backbone. He had no love for these men, certainly, but... what a horrible way to die. “Isn't there another—?"

"Heads up,” Malick barked, shoving Joori so hard he landed on his ass, all the air huffing out of his lungs. Joori thought at first it was merely an over-cautious way for Malick to spare him from the side effects of another conflagration as the little ball of flame left his hand and headed for the second barracks. But then he noted the shapes of men, not on fire but silhouetted by it, and headed straight for them. “Draw a weapon, and stay back,” Malick said over his shoulder then barreled in to meet them.

What looked like at least two score of men were rushing toward the first fire. Some broke off and headed toward the second fire when they spotted it. None had seemed to notice Malick and Joori yet except for the few who'd caught Malick's attention. Most of the men Joori could see looked like they were attempting to either help the screaming masses of melting flesh and bone that used to be their comrades or gathering in some semblance of order to fight the fire. “A distraction,” Malick had told Joori, to give Samin time to find Jacin and Morin, and to give them all time to do what they'd come here for.

This was certainly distracting.

Joori climbed slowly to his feet, pulled the little axe from his belt, and stared. He'd already watched Malick quietly garrote three men as he and Joori had crept their way down here. Had watched him engage in the briefest of sword battles and thoroughly rout the guard with whom he'd engaged so quickly and easily that Joori had to wonder why Malick would even bother hiding at all. If he just marched in here like he'd marched down the alley before, surely they'd all just lay down their weapons and run.

Maybe it was his ruthlessness. Malick
enjoyed
the fighting. He took every cheap opportunity presented, went for every soft spot and weakness, aimed for the quickest kill. Malick, in short, fought dirty. Nothing was beneath him. For pity's sake, he was sneaking up on men asleep in their beds and setting them on fire. Which... now that Joori thought about it, was more merciful than what these men did to the Jin they managed to get hold of. At least they got a pyre of sorts, they'd be reborn—as pigs or hens for a Jin's table, if there was even a tiny bit of justice, but still.

There were six men now, the reddish glint of their weapons swirling around them, smearing into Joori's vision as they all centered on Malick. Joori didn't have to see their faces to know their intent was to kill and not capture. They ran right past Joori, not even seeing him. Joori wondered for a moment if Malick had veiled him and he'd missed it, but it didn't feel like it had that night on the road, and Malick had aimed pretty well for the shadows as he'd thrown Joori down. So Joori sank a little deeper into the murk and watched.

Malick was grinning, something wicked and hard. His sword glittered and his knife arced, and Malick was fast, he was good, he was intense, but he wasn't... well, he wasn't Jacin. Joori had watched his brother take down twice this number in half the time at Yakuli's gates. These men were getting in far too close for Joori's nerves. Their blades hadn't yet connected but they were at least grazing, and Malick....

Malick wasn't using his magic.

Malick was defending almost as much as he was attacking. Malick was dropping back two steps for every one he gained. Malick was the sole center of attention for six armed men who were out for blood.

Malick was sweating.

And five more were coming.

Why wasn't Malick using his magic, damn it? Didn't he know Jacin was going to be
pissed
if Joori just stood here and watched Malick die? And what was Joori supposed to do if Malick did? Joori would be effectively stranded in enemy territory, and they knew he was here. Well, not him specifically, but they seemed to know—

"Joori!” Malick shouted, grunting when he had to make a quick retreat. He whirled away from his closest opponent, drove his knife into the chest of the one coming up behind him, and spun right back into the center again. “Two more!” he told Joori. “Get them and then run for the gates!
Go
!"

It took a second for the command to make sense to Joori, because there were actually four more, and another five would be close enough to engage in seconds. And then he realized what Malick was saying. He was telling Joori to leave him to this and go take care of the other two barracks. And then to run away.

Run away to
what
? What good would living do now, if Malick was right this second in the middle of failing? And if Malick failed, what happened to Jacin and Morin?

Anyway, what good would taking out the barracks do now? Everyone was alerted. Those not scrambling to deal with the fire were scrambling to regroup and figure out where the attack was coming from. And only if the entirety of the men here were complete morons would it escape their notice that the attack was coming from where it obviously appeared the attack was coming—namely, right where he and Malick were standing. Whatever Malick's original intention might have been, the barracks were either now empty or in the process of emptying, and there was no point in abandoning Malick to set them on fire.

And anyway, why the
fuck
was Malick not using his magic? Why was any of this even necessary? Did Malick enjoy the danger of it all
that much
?

Jaw set now, Joori tossed the axe in his hand a few times, familiarizing himself with the grip. He curled his fingers about it just so and slid the briefest of touches over Yori's arrow wedged in his belt. He was a key, he reminded himself as he watched the men approach. Not something important, probably, but something that unlocked something important. Maybe this was what he was
supposed
to be doing.